His Little Pill (JohnLock college au)
by deathbyinsomnia
Summary: Sherlock Holmes receives a reprieve from his thoughts of his tedious former roommate Jim Moriarty in the form of, fresh out of military service, John Watson. Oddly enough, John is just what the doctor ordered.-TW: past-tense suicide mentions, drug abuse
1. Bitter Pills to Swallow

**_Phrase: Bitter Pill to Swallow_**  
 ** _Definition: something that is difficult to understand or accept_**  
 **-**

* * *

It had been 3 months since the public suicide of Sherlock's equally eccentric roommate, Jim Moriarty, and despite minimal change in behavior he was sent (yet again) to the _inane_ and _inept_ clutches of the resident college therapist. So Sherlock waited, hoping to finally get the idea that he _could_ be mentally sound (at least by his own standards) through the therapist's thick skull.

His suit rumpled with each movement as he sat in the too-small waiting chair, feeling like a primary school child again (or so he assumed the sensation to be similar, he'd purposefully forgotten most of the experience), his outstretched legs crossed at his ankles in front of him.

He waited several minutes past his appointment time, beginning to become impatient. He was a punctual person by principal and easily became ill-tempered when kept waiting for too long.

He was about to stand up and leave when a young man stepped out, about Sherlock's own age, and was walking with a cane. Sherlock watched his face for a few moments as the man walked towards him, Sherlock's eyes taking notice to all of the finer details usually unnoticed by most.

The sandy blond hair in a stage of growing out from a close shave, and the clear and focused eyes, the way his brow furrowed naturally as though he had no idea he looked as though he was scowling at the passing chairs, the way his jaw tightened and untightened in nervousness, the way the beads of sweat seemed to gleam on his skin in a mix of exertion and nervousness, the way he blinked at the fluorescent lights as if they hurt, the tan lines on his wrists, the callouses visible in his free hand as it straightened his sweater.

"Sherlock Holmes, your turn." the therapist smiled falsely, writing something on her clipboard.

Sherlock stood at his name being called, but stopped in front of the man. Sherlock found slight amusement in the fact that he was least a head taller than him.

"Excuse me," he muttered, trying to walk around Sherlock.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, looking down to meet his eyes.

"What?" The man asked in a defensive tone, wondering if he had heard incorrectly.

"I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" Sherlock repeated, the therapist tapping her foot softly in irritation in Sherlock's peripheral vision. Sherlock pointedly ignored her.

"Afghanistan." The shorter man answered, as though he was he was so shocked at the question that he'd suddenly forgotten.

"Alright." Sherlock affirmed, walking towards the therapist's office.

The man glanced over at Sherlock and smiled, shaking his head in disbelief before making his way out of the building.

Once Sherlock strode in the therapist's office, the woman was already sitting in her chair, looking as unpleasant (towards Sherlock, at least) as ever. He sat in a nearby arm chair and waited for her speel to begin. After a few moments of him waiting, she cleared her throat again.

"How are we this week?" She asked, her clinical voice and smile practiced and precise.

"I absolutely _hate_ it when you say that," Sherlock told her.

"When I ask how you're doing? It's only polite-"

"No." He puts up his hand as he says it, stopping her. "That time you said it the proper way, 'How are _you_ doing?'. When you ask how ' _we_ ' are doing, it is condescending and you are talking down to me, it is unappreciated."

A small smile crossed her face, "John just said that earlier, almost in the same words."

Sherlock did not catch the boy's name who left before him, but assumed that due to the earliness of his own appointment he was likely the only person to precede him. He tried to hide his smile as he remembered the look of shock and wonder the man had when he'd asked where he toured. He liked surprising others and setting them off-balance.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, "Glad to know I'm not the only one who refuses to be spoken to like a child."

The therapist had to use every fiber of her being to suppress the eyeroll that threatened to overtake her, "Back to the session, Sherlock. How are _you_ doing this week?"

"As always, I'm fine, but it seems that my RA is breathing down my neck about not getting a replacement roommate."

"Your RA... why do you think he wants you to have a roommate again so badly? And so soon?"

"Lestrade doesn't like the fact that since Moriarty's side is empty now, I use his half of the room for experiments."

"Why do you think he is against your experiments?" She asked.

"He does not appreciate the importance of my experiments, he says 'constantly checking to see if I am still breathing' and 'making sure I am not going to kill all the dorm residents with my experiments' interrupts his criminology studies."

"Give me an example of one of your experiments." The therapist smiled, glad that this was the first time he'd said more than ten words to her. She hoped that that meant her report would be approved this time and he would be out of her hair.

"Testing chemical compounds on plants, using poisons as well as compounds of my own creation to see their effect. Despite it being for my thesis, they refuse to give me lab rats to use."

Sherlock's words had fallen on the therapist sharply, for she shot a concerned look his way. "You'd be killing living creatures by the group."

"Creatures raised to die during experiments," Sherlock corrected, eyes bored and roaming to the analog clock on the wall behind her, "has my time ended yet?"

"I'm concerned that your fascination with death is stemmed from the loss of your roommate-" the woman was cut off by Sherlock's laugh.

"I am collecting data, nothing more. Do you always get offended by death so easily? Besides, I had this idea since my first semester here. I was told my thesis should be new and exciting, with accurate data, and my department says because of the nature of my experiments I am not allowed to test on the rats. The behavioral psychology students are allowed to shock rats to their hearts' content, but a biochemistry student has to work on plants because it is _inhumane_. The double-standards of the human race never cease to amaze me."

"I don't understand-" the therapist started, a knock resounding on the door before it opened a moment later. After a few seconds of hellos and 'how-do-you-do's the student in the doorway left and the therapist gave Sherlock a look that dripped with finality. "I see we're going nowhere with these sessions. I may end up reassigning you if I can find someone, if not, then just consider the door open if you ever do need the talking. How does that sound?"

Sherlock was surprised, he hadn't expected her to give up so easily, but he appreciated it, he was wasting valuable experimentation time. He gave her a quick, forced smile and a nod before taking his leave and bumping into a man he remembered only as Volunteer Librarian No. 3, greeting him and forcing his way through idle chit-chat before making an excuse to leave back towards his dorm building. He opened the door to his room with his key, ignored Greg yelling at him about the fire hazards undoubtedly within Sherlock's room, and locked the door behind him once he'd entered.

Making his way to the desk sitting on the back wall of the room, he opened the top drawer to reveal a pill bottle rolling to the front of the otherwise empty compartment, hitting the front panel with a quiet _thunk_. He took the bottle into his hand, rolled it in his palm a few times before returning it to the drawer and slamming the drawer shut.

Sherlock looked to the empty bed where his roommate once slept, the mattress thrown out after the incident, and the piece of plywood holding his poisoned plants in place on the metal frame. He retrieved his notebook and favorite pen before sitting in front of the dozen-plus potted plants as he recorded his observations.

He was brought out of his dazed scribbling by a knock on the door, when he opened it, there stood the boy he'd seen earlier that day- John. He did not have the chance to ask why John was there before he spoke up.

"You're Sherlock, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered, glancing at John's cane once before meeting his eyes again.

"Mike Stamford," John paused, wondering if he had the wrong room judging by the confusion at Mike's name.

After a moment, he remembered aforementioned Volunteer Librarian No. 3 wearing a lanyard with his student ID. _Ah, that would be Mike Stamford,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

John took the look of sudden focus back to him as a cue to continue, "Mike said I could find you here. He said the RA's giving you grief about not having a roommate... and I happen to need a room, so I figured we could help each other out since aren't many more rooms empty on campus. If that's alright with you, of course."

"I play violin at odd hours of the night, I have an extensive experiment project I'm working on which should go unbothered, and I have fits of... _exuberant_ activity." The word exuberant coming off as a safer version of a more unappealing word to a stranger. "Is that a problem for you?" Sherlock asked, surprising himself that he was so open to the idea of sharing his room, as well as surprised at John's forwardness. However, after sparing a second thought to the sound of Greg lecturing him again about getting a roommate, he was no longer unsure in the idea.

"That's no bother to me." John answered, shrugging, "Are you good at violin?"

"I am very well-versed in classical pieces, but most who find out I play violin try to make me play things that are hardly even considered music." Sherlock answered, clearing off the desk to make room for his potted plant palette.

John, sensing the humor in what Sherlock had said, chuffed out a laugh, "How many people have asked you to play a song by One Direction?"

"Too damn many," Sherlock uttered darkly, earning another laugh from John. In surprise, he turned to John, his confusion betrayed on his face. "What is so funny?"

"Nothing," he said between laughs, "are you always this-"

"Cold?" Sherlock uttered as a reflex, expression souring, having heard it dozens of times before.

"Honest." John answered, shifting his weight to his right leg slightly. "It's... _refreshing_."

"Hm... we'll see." Sherlock said more to himself than to John, his stiffened posture loosening. "When will your things be here?"

John slung his backpack from his shoulder onto the floor, "This is almost all I have, but don't let the size of the bag fool you. I fit quite a bit in there."

"Will the dresser on your side be enough?" Sherlock asked. "You also have half of the closet too."

"Plenty, the only thing I really need to hang up is my military uniform. It's arriving by the end of the week." John's cheery tone wavered at the mention of his uniform, but returned as he spoke again. "I'm going to talk to the RA, let him know I will room with you, do you want me to get you anything while I'm out?"

"No, but make sure to ask Lestrade to use his air mattress in here until you can get a new one. If he offers for you to take Anderson's instead, don't take it, just come back and I'll work something out."

"What's wrong with Anderson's?"

"What is wrong with Anderson could fill a book, and the first words would be: See first page for a list in alphabetical order."

"Okay," John responded, hiding a chuff of amusement. He was not used to someone going so far in explaining their own words, or being so unapologetically coarse towards others in a way that was oddly tinged with familiarity. "I'll be back soon."

Once John had left the room, Sherlock moved the plants to the desk and plugged the spare surge protector back in on what was now John's side of the room. He gave John's bag a long look, still analyzing it from across the room. The short hairs on it- blond, likely John's own hairs, the single patch haphazardly sewn on that seemed to be a logo for a band or character that Sherlock did not recognize, the fading on most of the bag signalling its age, and finally the straps that seem to have been repaired by hand several times.

When John returned, no air mattress trailing behind him, "He said he lent his to Anderson and is waiting for it back."

"Don't bother," Sherlock tutted, "he's never getting it back if Anderson has it. You can sleep in my bed, I'll stay up and work on my thesis."

"Don't you have class tomorrow?"

"Yes, but the longest I've comfortably gone without sleep during a school week is 3 full days without microsleep, I'll be fine for one night. I have an extra pair of sheets and comforter if you want to change the sheets before you sleep in it." Noticing John loading his clothes into the dresser, he decided to ask what had really been bugging him. "Are you studying to be a medical doctor or a psychiatrist?"

"What?" John asked, the same way he had earlier that day.

"Based on my observations, I can tell it's one or the other, but seeing as you have both types of textbooks it is harder to tell."

"I'm not sure yet. Went overseas to pay for college, so I could have the option to decide at all."

Sherlock had no way to respond, so he simply gave a hum of approval and took his laptop to the armchair sitting at the foot of his bed. He sat down and opened up the document again, staring at the blinking cursor on the fifth page. After a few moments of staring at the line, John spoke again, leaning against the desk as his eyes roamed the various level of decayed chives plants.

"You know, Sherlock, you are very observant for a guy with a half-dead plant collection."

"It's my experiment," Sherlock closed his laptop and set it on the small end table beside him, looking at John as he spoke, glad to have a momentary distraction. "I'm testing the rate of decay in relation to certain poisons, I also have a few concoctions of my own creation in there to see if I can create a new, more effective poison. The experiment was supposed to be used with rats but they denied my request so I'm stuck with using plants."

"First, _wow-"_ John grinned, then his smile softened to a neutral expression. "Second, why won't they let you use rats?"

"They say it's cruel to use the rats for death experiments," Sherlock admitted.

"Aren't they raised to be expendable?" John asked, genuinely curious, not catching the odd look in Sherlock's eyes at the word _expendable_. "Why would they care?"

"That _is_ the question, isn't it? Maybe because it's me who's asking," Sherlock replied bitterly. "That or the fact that their death is an inevitably, as well as a goal, unsettles them."

"It sounds like an extremely useful experiment to me," John admitted. "The findings could help improve antidotes to poison or at least have better comparative observations."

"Exactly," Sherlock trailed off, unused to being agreed with so readily. "Did you have classes today?"

John shook his head, unpacking his bag of rolls of shirts, socks, underwear, sweaters, and pants (among other things). Sherlock watched as John unpacked, silently counting the amount John had of each item to pass the time. When John had paused to sneeze, Sherlock glanced down forlornly at his laptop before picking it up again and pulling up his blog, an ongoing observation log of his experiment. Reading over comments and rolling his eyes enough times to give him a minor headache, he glanced up to see John sitting on his boxspring cross-legged with his own laptop in his lap, fingers poised over the keys and unmoving.

"I begin classes tomorrow morning," John finally answered, a short exhale escaping through his nose. "Had basic training in the forces but right now I'm majoring in medicine with a minor in psychology but I'm still not sure yet about my path."

"Your _path_?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded at his choice of words.

"Yes," John nodded, his red desktop background reflecting in the eyes not meeting Sherlock's. "My father was a doctor, my sister used to be one, and my mother was a psychologist."

"So this is about who you take after, then." He uttered thoughtlessly.

"No," John hissed, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. "I respect both professions immensely, it's about whether or not I will do what I always said I would."

"Ah," Sherlock sighed, looking up to see John staring at him with his brows furrowed in a mix of irritation and concentration.

"What you're studying for now, did you always want to do that?"

"No," Sherlock replied coolly, "When I was a child I wanted to grow up to be a pirate."

A dead silence fell upon them, silent as the grave, until uproarious laughter erupted from John's chest in barking laughter. Sherlock found himself giggling quietly to himself, finding John's laughter infectious.

When John's laughter died down and he caught his breath, he closed his laptop and put it under his bed, "I'm glad you're my roommate, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mind short-circuited, leaving him utterly speechless, yet was able to change the subject instead. "I'll get the sheets and comforter for you."

Sherlock reached with the tips of his fingers into the tall closet, bringing the fingers of his left hand under the fabrics closer and closer until the piles fell into his arms.

John watched with interest, "How tall are you?"

"A bit over six feet tall- I haven't been measured since my high school physical, why?" Sherlock answered.

"That shelf seems a lot taller when you stand by it. I'm only about five-and-a-half feet tall, so I guess it's your stature. It felt like you towered over me earlier." John paused, taking the sheets and comforter from his arms. "I have an idea; I'm going to put the comforter in the fitted sheet. I did it a few times when I didn't have access to a futon back when I stayed at friends' houses. It should be comfortable if I do it right."

Sherlock tried to not visibly express his relief. Despite offering his own bed, he'd done it out of politeness- something he did not practice often- and was not completely comfortable with the idea of sharing his room yet, let alone his own bed.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John asked, back turned to Sherlock as he set up the comforter in the fitted sheet. "What happened to Jim?"

"Jim?" The name made him visibly stiffen.

"Your old roommate, I guess, his name is carved really small over here on the wall."

"He killed himself," Sherlock answered, eyes glued again to the blinking line of his thesis on his laptop. "Jumped off the Reichenbach auditorium."

"Oh," John said in a shriveled voice, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Sherlock answered quickly, then clarified. "We weren't close."

"Wasn't he your friend?" John asked, laying down on the makeshift mattress, staring at the ceiling.

"I don't _have_ friends." Sherlock answered.

"If you say so," John whispered, flicking the light off from his side. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"And to you, John," Sherlock whispered, surprising himself.

The voice of Jim Moriarty scratched at the base of Sherlock's skull in what began as a quiet and jeering murmur seemed louder as the darkness of John's side of the room was filled with his quiet breaths of sleep. The only light in the room was the light of Sherlock's laptop screen shining on his face, yet if Sherlock didn't know it was just his imagination- it would sound like Jim was sitting on what used to be his bed, talking to Sherlock in the one-sided manner he always did.

 _"Let's play a game, Sherlock," Moriarty taunted, hand behind his back. "Who will win, I wonder... The wannabe detective or the boy with the gun?"_

* * *

 _ **A.N.**_

 _ **Was originally going to be a oneshot but I got stuck after about 3k words and restarted from scratch (the old version is still saved in case I wanna finish it later)- thus, this version came about. It'd roughly be about 7 chapters including this one, I've got a plot vaguely planned. Should I continue it? Yes or no?**_

 _ **More importantly, tell me what you think!**_


	2. The Pill Called Moriarty

**_Phrase: _ is a Pill (adjective)_**  
 ** _Meaning: someone/something "difficult" or hard to get along with_**  
 **-**

* * *

Sherlock woke up to the sound of rustling nearby, causing him to shoot up in bed with a start. Upon realizing it was only his new roommate John Watson and _not_ the ghost of Jim Moriarty haunting him at an ungodly hour of morning, he proceeded to lie back down.

"Leaving so soon?" Sherlock asked, clearly uninterested.

"I have a class at 8am. Not really sure where the room is, have to go looking." John replied, hair wet from a shower. His long sleeves rolled up above his elbows, jeans loose, cane at his side.

"What class is it?"

"Experimental Psychology with Jacoby, room 115 in Rosewell Hall."

"Take a left out this room, down the stairs, out the doors, go about 200 feet to the Yates dorms and go around the back of the building, across the grass is the building, third door on your right."

"Have you taken the class before?" John asked, surprised at the ease in which Sherlock gave the directions.

"I only take online classes if I can help it," Sherlock admitted. "But I memorized the campus anyway."

"Why?" John asked, genuinely confused.

"The information may be useful someday. It was useful just now, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, turning his body away from John in hopes of falling back asleep.

"I'll see you in a couple of hours, then. Want anything for lunch when I'm on my way back?"

"Really?" Sherlock asked, still facing the wall, his eyebrows raised nearly into his hairline. John had asked without a hint of malice or forcefulness, something he was far from used to. He didn't even imply Sherlock had to pay. Actually, now that he thought about it, John had asked a similar thing yesterday. Perhaps it was just a habit for him, Sherlock reasoned.

"Yeah, want anything?"

"Get me whatever you're getting, eating is just sustenance anyhow." He rebutted nonchalantly.

"Right, well, I'll see you then. Have a good morning." John pulled the handle up on his small backpack so it would roll like a suitcase.

"Likewise."

"I'll leave my phone number in case you think of anything. I get out of classes at 2pm, okay?" John assured, so used to justifying his actions to superiors that he didn't realize that to Sherlock's ears it sounded like he was biding his time, asking for permission to leave.

"Go on, you'll be late." Sherlock chided.

John left without a word, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock turned back towards John's bed and caught a glimpse of the J in Jim that his former roommate had carved into the wall, half hidden behind the bed. His memories were still clear as day, despite desperately wanting to move on from them. The kid was certifiably crazy, Sherlock knew _that_ much the first time he'd met him.

He fell asleep, and with Jim Moriarty on his mind, remembered the first day he'd met him in vivid detail in his dream.

* * *

 ** _... Flashback ..._**

Jim had been walking around orientation with tight pants and a snug shirt, seeming to take turns charming one student to the next trying to find a _fit_ for his needs. He had settled on a mousy girl with a sticker badge that announced her name as Molly Hooper.

Sherlock knew the Molly briefly, she had gotten lost on her way to that very auditorium. She had asked if she could follow him to orientation to which Sherlock shrugged stiffly with a whispered, "Aren't you following me already?"

It was raining and she had even offered to share her umbrella to which Sherlock declined. Molly, in her seemingly infinite kindness, had tried to still hold the umbrella above them both anyway her hurried pace awkward in an effort to keep up behind him. Despite her distracted demeanor, she seemed nice in Sherlock's eyes. She tried to talk to Sherlock but he gave murmured sarcastic answers or shrugged wordlessly. Molly had even told him their talk was "nice" in the doorway of the auditorium before going her own way.

Now she was being whispered to at a poor attempt of using the room-is-too-loud excuse by the human embodiment of a parading peacock. She seemed to light up at the conversation, which set Sherlock on edge. Molly seemed naive, impressionable, and the guy had ulterior motive, his body language oozed with it. Therefore, in a feat unusual to Sherlock, he felt the need go split the two.

"Molly Hooper, is it?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the boy. "We met earlier."

"Sherlock, did you get all your paperwork?" She asked, her attention taken from the boy for a moment.

"I did. Do you have any friends here, Molly?"

"Sure," Molly nodded, smiling, "I know some kids from my high school and some I know of but that I don't know personally."

"Would you introduce me, Molly?" Sherlock asked, eyes never leaving Molly's for the sake of holding her full attention.

She flushed, nodding, motioning Sherlock over to a group talking amongst themselves. Sherlock had felt a boost in ego that she had been captivated by him so completely. So completely, in fact, that she didn't even realize she had left the peacock alone to puff out his chest and seek out another victim. After being at a level of almost-pleasantness at all introductions he eventually brought her aside and informed her of what he saw the boy doing.

"Jim? No, he wouldn't take advantage of me, he seemed sweet." Molly smiled, denying.

"Molly, you misunderstand me. Not taking advantage of you sexually, he had absolutely no interest in you. Based on who he seems to be targeting around this auditorium- he was planning on using you as a free homework slave. If you see- over there, Molly- he is picking shy but intelligent students that he can easily manipulate."

Her face reddened in embarrassment as Sherlock mentioned sex, but lost her shame and became intrigued as he went on, "How does he know who to pick?"

Sherlock looked at Molly, felt himself force down a grin of self-pride as he explained, "It isn't foolproof guessing personality by mannerisms, but if you look at yourself, Molly, and then at the other students you will see similar patterns of behavior. Watching of anywhere but a stranger's eyes, eyes staring intently off into the distance, nail picking and biting, no electronics out for the sake of full absorption of surroundings, clenched jaw, unnatural focus on other people's actions- these are all traits of someone reading a room, whether direct or nonchalant. They're looking for social cues, it's fairly common for those of above-average intelligence to feel the need to mirror the situation in professional settings like this one. Plus some of them have greek academic pamphlets so... that too."

"The part just before that last bit was much more impressive." Molly whispered in a conspiratorial hush. "You should have stopped there."

"Perhaps I should have," Sherlock admitted, a tight smile showing through.

"I'm still very impressed, though." Molly looked up at a college counselor gesturing to the seats. "It is starting now, come sit with me."

Sherlock followed quietly, his tall figure looming behind her, hair still wet from the rain outside. As they sat down, he wicked the rain gathered on his trench coat onto the floor without paying much attention to the speaker.

Close to an hour passed before everyone was released on a tour of school grounds. Molly stuck fast to Sherlock who made cutting quips at each art piece on the lawn and each mural depicting student togetherness. Molly giggled and listened to him with interest. At the end of the tour everyone began to disperse.

"Sherlock, take my number. I think we could be good friends." She grinned, writing down her phone number then presenting it to him on a blue post-it note.

Sherlock took it, watching in confusion as she walked away.

"Sherlock, is it?" the boy whispered, Sherlock already forgetting the boy's name. "I'm Jim Moriarty, from before."

Sherlock responded with a suspicious glare.

"I'm not happy that you took her from me. In fact, I am quite _furious_." Moriarity's eyes darkened as his expression changed in an instant, his jaw tight and nostrils flaring. "If you intend to use her, why not share her? Hm?"

"I do not _share_ anything, nor is she mine to share. Piss off." Sherlock strode by him, going in the direction of his dorm where he already dropped off his things.

Jim Moriarty smiled to himself, turned on his heel and headed towards his car. He did enjoy his games, and Sherlock seemed a worthy playmate, for now.

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine, but he wasn't sure why. He would later recall it as the exact moment he recognized as the subconscious start of his life going downhill at a breakneck pace.

* * *

 ** _... Flashforward ..._**

Sherlock's eyes shot open and to his phone as he woke with a start, taking it up in his hands. He rubbed his eyes with one of them to wake up enough to text Molly. He'd nearly forgotten she made plans to come over sometime that afternoon to see how his experiments were coming along.

 _I have a new roommate. He was in_ _Afghanistan. He is sleeping in Moriarity's bed._ _Do you have a spare mattress?_  
 _-SH_

Molly responded almost immediately, messages popping in with quick succession.

 _In his?_

 _Why?_

 _When did this happen?_

 _Are you okay?_

 _My parents might, do you need anything else_?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a familiar sigh of exasperation escaping his lips.

 _I'm fine. That's all I need. Why can't you send that all at once? You know it irritates me when you text like that._  
 _-SH_

The response this time took longer, long enough for Sherlock to get up, shower, change clothes, and begin checking his experiments.

 _Sorry, this is just a lot. I know I'm still not over Jim's death, so I can't imagine what you must be feeling. How is he? Your roommate? Is he nice? Does he know about him?_

Sherlock sighed, finishing his checks before responding.

 _He doesn't know. He is a new student. He may be bringing me food after his classes, they end at 2._  
 _-SH_

Molly responded within the minute.

 _Can I meet him?_

* * *

Sherlock looked over at John's things, then the bed, before replying _yes_ back to Molly. She responded she'd be over at about 2 so she could meet him, promising to see him later.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on the lack of things John owned and he felt disappointed. He couldn't place just why, he just knew it felt wrong to him. John seemed to be missing something and his lack of possessions made it clear whatever it was wasn't with him.

He remembered how John's voice had weakened when he mentioned his uniform. Perhaps that was all he didn't have with him, maybe that was all that was coming. Although he was fond of his fair share of snooping, he felt a sense of guilt as he unpacked John's bag.

The first thing he noticed was John had only partially unpacked last night, probably because of tiredness. The sets of clothes rolled small made him pause. It was used to pack more in, but the clothes still only took up less than half of the bag, looking in the drawer there was only a couple of shirts and pants. Sherlock unpacked the ones in the bag into the dresser, a sorry excuse for a reason to be going through John's bag, but a reason he could explain away as being socially-inept. It had worked before.

Under the clothes was a rolled up jacket, pulling it out he noticed Watson stitched on the front. The material felt course under his fingers, pulling the material to his nose he smelled a smorgasbord of unidentifiable overlapping smells, the few he recognised being cigarette smoke, musty dampness, and disinfectant. He let a shaky breath out of his nose, hanging up the coat in the shared closet, putting it on John's side. He wondered if John planned on washing it, or if he wanted the smell the same, to keep the memory alive.

He glanced at the clock from his spot on the floor, the ticking a lulling sound to his mind, it was noon. He dove back in to the bag, catching sight of something gleaming at the bottom. Reaching his hand inside the bag he brought out a pocket watch. Turning it in his hands, he began to read the inscription when the door opened and John entered with a shocked expression at seeing Sherlock digging through his things.

"Sherlock. What are you doing in my bag?" John stepped closer, dropping his rolling backpack to snatch the watch out of his hand. "That, is an invasion of my privacy."

"I was putting your clothes away for you," Sherlock gestured to the single jacket hanging in the closet. "You're back early."

"My class was cancelled."

"Very unprofessional to miss the first day of a new semester, even if only a half semester class." Sherlock continued, watching John's hand which slowly clenched tighter on the watch.

"His daughter was in a minor accident- now why did you go through my bag?" He yelled, noticing the door was open behind him and slamming it shut.

"I assume an apology won't suffice." Sherlock leaned sideways against the bedframe of John's bed. His expression betrayed his lack of guilt.

"You don't seem like the apologizing type."

"That is true," Sherlock admitted. "I wanted to know your story. There is only so much to tell from our few hours of knowing each other."

"So, therefore, you feel privy to go through my personal belongings, is that it?" John's face began to get more and more red with frustration, noticing he was squeezing the watch he shoved it in his pocket and sat on his "futon" with a huff.

"Do you not understand why I am angry?" John asked, voice pinched with a mix of fury and disbelief.

"Not really, all I did was put your clothes away. Not like there is anything of interest in here. Except the pocket watch, maybe. It's not yours, likely your father's or brother's because the-"

"It's my sister's, it was a graduation gift. _Never, ever,_ go through my stuff again. Are you clear on that?" John's voice flattened, calmed. As though he was barking orders.

"Clear." Sherlock nodded, a ghost of a smile appearing at the stern voice taken with him. "I have someone coming over at two, she wants to meet you."

John blinked a few times, confused at the sudden change in conversation. "Okay?"

"She's bringing a mattress. Her parents may have a spare."

"A spare mattress?" John asked, looking at his sad excuse for a mattress he used last night. "Where do they have one of those lying around?"

"Her parents do renovations on houses. According to Molly, the people they buy their supplies from give them bulk items sometimes. Furniture items included." Sherlock looked at the clock again 12:45. "If you want, I can see if she could get here earlier."

"No, that's fine." John muttered, "Anyway, I got us both sub sandwiches."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock took the sandwich from John's hand as he took it from his school bag. "What is in it?"

"I ordered the same as I got, not sure of your preferences, it's a ham and cheese sub." John got his own sandwich out and beginning to munch on it. "So... Who's Molly?"

"She's the one who wants to meet you, I just said that a moment ago." Sherlock mumbled around a half-mouthful of sandwich.

"I mean, who is she to you? Like is she your girlfriend, or?"

"Oh no," Sherlock chuckled absently, "Not Molly."

"Then you have a girlfriend, but not Molly?" John asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Ah, no. Not really my area. Would you like a water? I have some in the mini fridge." Sherlock asked, setting the wrapped sub on the dresser before getting to the fridge to grab a bottled water.

"No, I'm fine. So you have a boyfriend, then?" John asked, trying to make conversation.

Sherlock paused, a confused expression momentarily crossing his features, taking a sip from the bottle. "No. I don't."

"Oh, okay." John nodded along, finishing the last bit of his sandwich and throwing the wrapper in the bin.

A light bulb seems to go off in his head as he returns to his sitting place across from John, trying to take on a understanding tone. "John, uhm, I think I should make you aware that my experiments and my degree are my top priority right now and while I'm, uh, flattered by your interest, I-"

"Oh, uh, I wasn't asking- I was just... making c-conversation. You know, break the tension." John stumbled over his words, shock evident on his face.

"Right." Sherlock responded, his phone giving off the sound of an 8 bit sound effect that John couldn't readily recognize. Once he checked the message, he headed towards the door, rolling up his dress sleeves. "That's Molly, I need to help her get the mattress in the elevator. If that weasel Anderson tries to come in here tell him I still have the pictures of him and his married lover _in throes_ , so to stay away. If Lestrade tries to come over, tell him to get his ass downstairs and help me with the mattress. We won't be long."

"Sure," John nodded, thankful that even though Sherlock was not openly acknowledging it, he was being kind to John in his own way. "Shoo away Anderson, tell Greg to help."

"Greg?" Sherlock scowled, "You mean Lestrade?"

"Yes, Sherlock, that _is_ his name."

"His name is Lestrade." Sherlock corrected.

"Yeah, his surname is. His first name is Greg." John countered.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, distrusting. "If I yell out the name Greg, he will come running?"

"Yes, I'm sure." John smiled, amused.

"GREG!" Sherlock screamed.

"What?!" Lestrade jumped out of his room shirtless in his boxers.

"So your name _is_ Greg, then." Sherlock said aloud, amused at his disheveled appearance. "Help me get this mattress into the elevator, Lestrade. Can't keep Molly waiting."

"Yeah, okay, let me get some shorts on. Be down in a sec. Hey, John." Greg waved, clearly having been roused from a midday nap.

"Heya, Greg. Sorry about that. I would help, but my leg-."

"Go on in, John. Make room for whatever he is bringing up. Molly will probably be up soon. Sherlock won't let her lift it, she hurt her arm a while back at her job. Most she could do is guide with her other arm."

Greg smiled from the open door, pulling on basketball shorts and closing the door behind him, heading downstairs. Anderson poked his head out the room next to Lestrade's and hissed for them to quiet down. John relayed Sherlock's message in air quotes, Anderson quietly closing the door without so much as a peep.

The boys came up soon after with a perky, smiling redhead with a cast on her left arm taking lead. "You must be John Watson." Her slight lisp caught on his last name, "I'm Molly Hooper."

The boys put the mattress inside, passing the two and working together in silence to put on the sheets.

"John, Sherlock does not claim to have friends, but I consider him to be one of my best friends. Do not do to him what Jim did. He said you don't know, but when he tells you I just want you to know that he is sensitive. He may not act like it, but he cares deeply about the people close to him. Do not take his cutting words at face value, he doesn't always understand the harm in what he says and does."

"So I have seen," John muttered, thinking back to the watch in his jeans pocket. "What happened to Jim?"

"You'll find out soon enough." Molly whispered, inviting Greg to stay and play monopoly with them.

"The game is strategy and luck, two things I am terrible at, but thanks." Greg laughed and exited the room.

They sat in a triangle, playing monopoly with a fairly bored Sherlock. He always lost first when playing with Molly, never getting the gist of the game itself. Sherlock's eyes wandered to Jim's name carving again and he looked at the made bed with a sense of relief. Hopefully, John would hang up posters and the room would look like Moriarity was never there.


	3. Sugar-Coat the Pill

_**Meaning: (To make something that is bad, unpleasant, or dissatisfactory easier to cope with, endure, or accept)**_

The game ended unfinished, with Molly taking notes of property holdings, funds, et cetera before cheerily saying goodnight to Sherlock and John. The two tidied up the room in silence, picking up stray granola wrappers and water bottles. After cleaning up, they were silent a while.

The three of them had made small talk during the game, mostly between John and Molly. They talked about their majors, they talked about their teachers, they talked about family, their lives outside of college, whatever they felt needed to be brung up, quite frankly. Sherlock had a time of it trying to act as though he was indifferent, yet picking up on the information he felt needed to be filed away for later.

Molly had noticed this and grinned to herself, she could tell when Sherlock was trying to act out of character. Although she would never dare reveal it to Sherlock, he had tics, just like any other human being.

Molly liked being the only one who knew these things, but looking at John she felt her chest swell a little. He was attractive, not her type per-se, but was far from unpleasant to look at. She knew her attraction was obvious to Sherlock, he seemed to always be able to read her mind but she didn't care. So far as she'd seen, Sherlock definitely held some kind of fascination with John that was unusual.

John called Sherlock out for things; for example, when Sherlock questioned the logic of the game- like the game not keeping up with inflation or the pointlessness of the chance cards- John would roll his eyes and try to explain it as if he was talking to a child as Sherlock would try to rebuke in return, clearly irritated. They bickered like children, or an old married couple, and it warmed Molly's heart to have this side showing to someone other than her (and on the rare occasions, Greg).

"Molly was nice." John offered, in lieu of a conversation starter after she had already gone.

"She is tolerable, unlike most people." Sherlock conceded, "You two seemed to have hit it off."

"We have similar majors, so that's definitely a part of it, at least on the medical side anyway." John looked over at the dying plants again, watching them with interest. "How long until your experiment concludes?"

"I am planning on giving it another few days at least, I have all the data I really need. At this point, I'm just padding out the spreadsheet. I found out all I needed to know in the first week, but science relies on multitudes of data reinforcement for it to be accepted."

"Okay, so I thought I could do this with a nice segue into the question but you'd probably see right through it anyhow. Besides, you seem like the type that would prefer I be direct and not beat around the bush. Tell me about this Moriarty guy." John straightened his posture after saying it, as though he had drunk liquid courage in the last 10 seconds of speaking.

"Your assumption would be correct. I hate small talk." Sherlock sighed, "Moriarty was my roommate, as I have already told you, and that he jumped to his death. What I left out was that he was a psychopath. He didn't even kill himself because he was depressed, he did it to mess with me. Everyone tells ma that I'm deluded and self-absorbed to think so, but I know better.

He knew how intensely I latch onto a competition, and he hoped I would make my death grander than his to finally win against him in the stupid little game of his, or finally lose... and not give into death with him. As you can see, he won the final game."

"Wow." John muttered, taking all the information in, "That's... a lot. He ever see a therapist or anything like that?"

"According to him, a few tried to commit him over the years when they saw through him, but he was a charismatic individual." Sherlock's voice grew slack and his expression distant. "He had the ability to make others follow his every word. Had he not been so interested in me as a rival, I have no doubt he would have driven others to their death for the sport of it. He liked acting too, got a lot of lead roles, but it came second nature to him since almost everything he did was part of his nice-guy persona. Molly almost fell for it, once. He might have even killed her once he got bored with her. It's unnerving to think about all the damage he could have caused."

"At least you came out of it unscathed," John offered to which Sherlock let out a dry laugh.

"Not entirely." Sherlock uttered cryptically.

"How do you know he was that dangerous? Killing someone is a lot different than manipulation, how are you sure he was capable?"

"One night, when he planned on going to a party off-campus, he started a row with me- can't even remember what it was about, it was so trivial. To make a long story short, he purposefully left his phone out on his bed for me to tamper with. Even had a simple password on the lockscreen to mock me. If he had no password I might not have even bothered, but he knew how I was-" Sherlock started, pacing back and forth across the small room.

"Not to interrupt but," John interjected, earning an irritated glance from Sherlock. "Aren't you being a little egotistical here? Laying all of these plans just tailored to you? Isn't that a little... unlikely?"

"You never met him, so you couldn't know. Our rivalry was something that, dare I say, was of epic proportions. Mythical, even."

"Okay," John scoffed, almost laughing.

"Anyway, when I unlocked the phone- his birthday was the code, what a joke- the phone was nearly bare. No apps downloaded for social media, no games, nothing non-standard to his phone. All of his storage used was from his gallery. Photos painstakingly organized, categorized, all noted with names, dates, everything. They told what seemed like stories, John.

They would start of him taking pictures of an individual from a distance who didn't seem to know they were being photographed, eventually they would get closer and closer over the course of weeks or days, then have a picture taken of him probably by the subject or a photo of him with the subject, then there would be a gap of days or a week with a final photo of him smiling with the person's arm or foot lying in the background. He murdered these people, somehow. All of those names came up with missing persons records or newspaper clippings of corpses being found, it is no coincidence I'm sure of it."

"And you never thought to call the police?" John asked, earning an incredulous look from his roommate.

"You're kidding, right? That evidence would have been easily destroyed. Besides, he wanted me to find it and that alone speaks volumes. He knew I couldn't do anything about it, but he wanted me to pursue him and turn him in. I was working on it, compiling info without the photos as evidence over the course of months.

I was at the crux of it all when he jumped. He's dead, it's pointless now. Plus, most cops around here are imbeciles, and the ones who aren't are bent ten ways to Sunday. It would have lead nowhere without all the info I compiled. You've been in the army too long, you're too used to accountability, Watson."

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fist mindlessly, a nervous tic.

"Maybe so. You may not have been friends, but his death clearly effects you. Has the sessions with the school counselor been helping? You were there when I met you."

"No," Sherlock laughed sourly, "she was useless at her job. She is better suited at a primary school where they give out gold stars."

"Would you be willing to talk to me?" John asked, watching him with expressionless eyes. "I don't have formal training yet, but I believe I may be useful to you."

"It's not about use. However, if it behooves you, I will allow you to listen to my 'incessant ramblings' as Lestrade calls them." Sherlock held out his hand to be shaken.

John was adequately surprised, he didn't think Sherlock would take to the idea so quickly. Still sitting on the floor, he reached his hand up and shook hands with Sherlock as the mark of a deal being struck. John noticed a minute tremor in Sherlock's hand but did not comment as the taller boy excused himself to his computer to do more work on his thesis. John watched with interest, moving up onto his bed and taking a moment to stare at Sherlock's violin.

"How about an exchange, then? If you feel it is not beneficial enough for me." John felt selfish, almost fiendish in his request. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained_ , reminded himself.

Sherlock looked up with a rare, momentary look of shock before letting his expression slip into a smirk of curiosity, "What is your price, then, Dr. Watson?"

"Play for me sometimes, play anything you like." John smiled meekly. "I love music, but I never learned how to play an instrument. Harry learned piano while my dad always sent me outside to play rugby with the neighborhood kids. It's one of my greatest regrets, never learning to play the piano with my sister."

Sherlock felt a passing heft within his chest as he saw John's hard expression change to something much younger, more bittersweet and naive. His palms began to sweat, the shaking stopped as his fingers hovered over the computer keys. No one ever asked him to play for them before, not like John just did. With a genuine sincerity beneath the selfish request. Not asking to play something from the top 50 hits, but to play from his own choice, an unusual request indeed.

Realizing the somber expression within this bit of honesty, his voice became something close to soothing, "Easy enough. I will indulge you that, you need only ask."

"Anytime?" John asked, a cheeky grin crossed his face.

"Within reasonable limits," Sherlock conceded, his cheeks tinting beneath the smile he hid behind his computer screen. His heart fluttered at the sight of such a gentle smile, he adjusted the laptop on his bed tray, making sure it was level enough to not bend forward.

His throat felt a little dry as he dwelled on that thought, he asked John to grab a water bottle for him while John was grabbing one for himself. John tossed it to him, going back to his bed and lying down.

Suddenly, John missed reading. The room was quiet, save for the clicking of the keys on Sherlock's laptop. With a frown, he glanced outside, then at his watch, deciding it wasn't too late to go by the library and pick up a few books for pleasure reading. He was still taking undergrad courses, so he clearly had the time.

Getting up, he stuffed his phone and wallet into his pants pockets, glancing over at Sherlock. "I'm going to the library, would you like to come?"

Sherlock met John's eyes which seemed miles away as he stared at the door to the hall, then glanced at the laptop. He had made some decent progress in the past week so he could step away for a while. "I suppose."

Sherlock stood and stretched before he stuck his wallet into his pants pocket. John pulled on his jacket and kindly reminded Sherlock to remember his jacket, since it would be cold out. Sherlock clicked his tongue with fondness, hiding his satisfaction of being worried about in a frown of disdain.

Sherlock placed his palm on the window, hand immediately chilled and had to agree, it was cold. He pulled on his jacket and scarf, glancing over at John with his leather bomber jacket. It was not nearly warm enough for the weather outside, but Sherlock disregarded it and opened the door for him as they left, locking the door behind them.

They walked to the library with leisure. Hands shoved in their pockets- save for John's hand which held his cane- and their chins tucked down as they watched the pavement ahead. The silence was weightless, the quiet sounds of fall around them as dry leaves crunched underfoot. When a particularly cold wind blew past, both instictly walked closer in hopes to gain warmth from the other. Neither noticed their arms brushed each other.

John's cane thudded soft of the concrete, his energy a little low due to the thin jacket not providing him enough warmth. He exhaled sharply and shakily, his breath showing in the dark as a white puff of air. His fingers were growing numb and tingled from the cold.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the library about 20 feet away, its lights a beacon in the dark.

John nodded, trying to pull the short collar of his jacket over his nose and mouth by sticking his head in like a turtle. "Sorry, yeah. I forget sometimes that nodding doesn't make a sound."

"My mother used to say 'Do you have rocks in your skull, because unless you do I can't hear a nod'." Sherlock smiled faintly, remembering the memory with some fondness.

"I guess it's because I spent so long in the south. It doesn't get as cold as it does here, rarely snows even." John shivered a little, "I just have to adjust again."

As they reached the stoop, John held the door open for Sherlock and followed him in. The warmth of the building immediately soothed them, taking off their coats and setting them on the back of a few chairs at an empty table by the front door.

"Do you have anything you're going to look for?" John asked.

"I didn't come along to follow you around," Sherlock quipped.

John stifled a laugh, going towards the shelf harboring the murder mysteries. Seeing the direction John went in, he shook his head as if in mock disappointment and went up the stairs to the second floor, dedicated to non-fiction and textbooks.

Sherlock took a glance off the balcony, seeing John reading the backs of paperbacks from a distance and felt a sense of deja-vu. It took him back to going to the library with his brother as youths. Sherlock had always dawdled in the botany, human biology, psychology, and forensic science sections while Mycroft lingered among political sciences, business, finance, and law.

Despite only seven years of age gap, Mycroft was already in the prime of his career and an indispensable figure in society. Sherlock, on the other hand, desired to beat his brother but had no realistic way to do so with his peculiarities, particularities, and general disengagement for setting forth more effort than necessary.

Sherlock was intelligent, absolutely. Top of his class? Always. However, he didn't put forth more effort than necessary to make friends, create roots, or set forth in establishing a career path. His parents had money to live peacefully in retirement; Mycroft paid for Sherlock's education in hopes he would make something of himself; and Sherlock just wanted to learn and absorb information. He felt dread at the thought of graduation, being set out into the world with need of finding a career- a "purpose".

So he read, and with every book he read on subjects he enjoyed he would forget a little more about the things that didn't matter: the plot of books he took tests on in secondary school, heliocentric theory, the color wheel. None of it mattered, nothing mattered except _his_ knowledge. The knowledge compiled over the past two decades.

He had a few books in his right arm: a book on the process of the creation of inks, a book on identification of air-borne diseases, and a how-to on tracking animals. Over the past few semesters he managed to read nearly every book that interested him, and was down to nearly three dozen left out of the entire upper floor. The realization made Sherlock glad he was going to graduate soon.

Taking a glance at the lower floor, Sherlock noticed John starting to struggle between juggling books and leaning on his cane. Though Sherlock had suspected the injury required for the cane was psychosomatic, outright saying so would go against the manners that Molly tried to drill into his thick skull. Going to the ground floor, he set his books on the table and walked over to John to offer his help.

John nodded sheepishly, but seemed put out by the need for help. Sherlock considered telling him the need for the cane was a crutch, that he was only making things more difficult for himself, but didn't in favor of carrying both sets of their books to check out.

The woman at the counter, early twenties with blue eyes and golden brown hair, caught John's eye and she smiled at him as he approached the checkout desk. Sherlock followed beside him and watched the girl with interest as John made small talk, looking over the books Sherlock picked with interest. John said a polite goodbye as he and Sherlock put on their coats and left with their books, Sherlock still holding them.

"You didn't ask her out." Sherlock pointed out, adjusting his scarf around his neck.

"Why would I?" John laughed, "Be odd to ask out of nowhere. Besides, I have barely even settled in, besides she wasn't interested."

"I thought that you had a bad leg, John. Not useless eyes." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She was clearly flirting with you."

"You're joking," John squinted suspiciously, grinning. "Didn't take you for the joking type, Sherlock."

Sherlock put a hand on John's arm, stopping him from proceeding, "Must I walk you through everything, John? No, I'll just give highlights along the way. You're clearly cold."

Instinctively, Sherlock unwound his scarf with one arm and wrapped it around John's neck as he spoke, causing John to blink in confusion, in a daze as he listened. Sherlock started walking again, a bit in a rush as his mind worked quickly. John stumbled for a moment to match pace but caught up as he, unknowingly, depended slightly less on his cane.

"Women have an innate tendency to use a higher pitch in their voice in the presence of an attractive mate, it is believed by evolutionary psychology that it is due to the high voice correlating with youth and fertility which men find attractive and are more willing to copulate-" Sherlock went on, opening the door to their dorm building as he talked.

"Copulate?" John asked, flustered.

"To have sex, John." Sherlock tutted, as if disappointed.

"I know what it means-"

"I shall continue then," Sherlock pressed the up key on the elevator and stepped inside, waiting for John who shuffled in beside him. "Her eyes lingered on your lips, telltale sign, and she was digging to find out interests or established plans to see if she could wiggle her way into them. Those are just the most glaring ones-"

Greg was in their shared hall, leaning against the wall as he frowned at them, then beaming with shock, "It's nearly cerfew, guys, you shouldn't be out so close to- wait, Sherlock, isn't that your scarf?"

"Yes, goodnight Lestrade. Tell Anderson to stop tattling about every time I leave after dark." Sherlock waved over his shoulder, unlocking the door and letting them both inside the room.

Once the door was closed, Sherlock set the books on the mini fridge and began undressing and preparing for bed on his side of the room. John took his books from the stack and set them beside his bed, sitting on his bed.

"I guess I didn't notice she was flirting," John admitted, "but when you put it like that, it was pretty obvious in hindsight. She isn't really interested, though."

Sherlock groaned, "Tedious. I just explained-"

"There's something you didn't notice, though, Sherlock." John's voice was quiet and brooding, "But you couldn't have seen, most people don't notice... Before she did all that, she noticed my leg _then_ she began flirting with me."

"What does that matter?" Sherlock asked, pulling on his night pants. They were loose, so he untied the drawstrings and knotted it tighter.

"There are those who try to fix others, you know. A buddy of mine, back when I was... over there, he and one of the nurses got on well when he got hospitalized after an amputation. Long story short, she wanted to _fix_ his arm, wanted to make it reappear somehow just by being saintly towards him.

It exhausted her and, after a while, he hated being treated like an ill child. He adapted to living without it but after she realized there are some things that don't _need_ fixing she left him. She took their newborn daughter with her.

That girl at the library, in that moment, had that same look. The _I can fix him_ look. I hate that look, and I don't want to see it again. That's why it matters." John sighed, "You didn't need to hear all that. I'm sorry."

Sherlock reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a water bottle and took a drink, shrugging, "No need. I shouldn't have insisted."

"Thank you," John unwrapped the scarf from his neck, just remembering it was there. It smelled like sandalwood and lavendar, he noticed. It was a comforting smell. "Here, your scarf. "

Sherlock took the scarf back wordlessly, setting it in the closet with his coat. John began changing his own clothes. Sherlock stepped into the bathroom and after brushing his teeth, sat on his bed and watched as John brushed his teeth with the door open.

"You don't need fixing, John." Sherlock agreed, "Not by her for that matter, she clearly makes poor choices."

John guffawed, "Wow, Sherlock. Tell me what you really think."

"She makes poor choices if she only looks for things to fix. Besides, your leg is fine. There's no physical wound, is there? I imagine it's psychosomatic, and maybe hearing that diagnosis is why you don't favor the uni psychologist."

John exhaled sharply through his nose, spit out his toothpaste and stomped to bed without another word to Sherlock. Sherlock was indeed right, the woman had said as much, but John refused to believe it. If it wasn't a real injury, then what was all his wasted time for? Time spent with a psychologist talking about his time in the military, time spent looking for a dorm with an elevator, time spent getting to class early to make sure to get an aisle seat in the front.

A dull pain twinged in his leg and he mentally cursed it, hearing Sherlock adjust in bed and falling asleep. What if there wasn't even anything to fix? Where would he be?


	4. More Than Sherlock Has Pills

_**Original: more than Carter has pills**_  
 **Meaning: (has a lot of something)**

 **The Schindler's List Theme is the song Sherlock plays later on in this chapter. I don't want to name drop inside the chapter itself because it takes away from the atmosphere but feel free to listen as you read, as the chapter suits the song well.**

 **3 chapters left!**

* * *

 _What if his leg was nothing more than a self-serving coping mechanism for his guilt?_

This was the thought that lead John Watson into a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of violence and bloodshed. This particular dream was the one that haunted his dreams the most, the dream that forever would bar him from any movie that depicted war in any manner.

This dream was always filled with happy memories of his barrack mate, Jéan and his stories of youth in France. The dream aways ended with Jéan being shot repeatedly in the chest from behind, over and over again falling face first into the dirt- dead. The look of surprise on his face, eyes forever open and mouth agape. Body rising, as if a tape rewound, only to be shot again and again.

This particular night, Jéan had died four times before the horror was forcing sobs from his sleeping body.

...

It was the feeling of sobs wracking his body, as well as the feeling of being touched, that woke him from his violent dreams.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was watching him with an intense stare, hand resting firmly on John's shoulder. He pushed the hand away reflexively, wiping madly at his eyes to rid the tears from his cheeks. His voice was gone, throat raw from fearful gasps in his sleep. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, unoffended by the brushing off of his touch, watching John with an intensely focused expression.

Sherlock did not have the decency to realize how uncomfortable he made John. Not only by invading his personal space, but continuing to stare even after John began to avert his eyes and try to pull himself together. He watched as John worked hinself down from his frenzied state into one of a mild tremor in his right hand and conscious breathing.

"This would be the expression of nightmares, likely from PTSD stemmed from your service, correct?" Sherlock asked, "What did you dream?"

"I never really remember the details once I wake up," John exhaled shakily, sitting himself up in bed. The dreams had the knack for making him fully cognizant instantly upon waking. "Could you get me some water? I won't be able to steady my legs for a few minutes."

Wordlessly, Sherlock retrieved the water without rushing and continued to watch John in an expression akin to an observer looking for meaning in a full moon or the darkening horizon. John felt naked under the closest thing to a tender, unpitying gaze since he had been hospitalized. He took the water and drank it as though it were an oasis, thankful for the gesture. After more silence, John made room for Sherlock to sit on the bed and patted a spot beside him. Sherlock took the place reluctantly and let his gaze finally wander around the room, clearly a little out of touch with this intimate gesture.

"One of my bunkmates, he died while we were out on a routine check. Shot in the back a couple times, I was a medic when it happened. Some of it must be blocked out, I don't even remember his name sometimes until I think about it for a while. It really bothers me that, outside of my dreams, I can't even picture his face without it being that empty expression from after he died. I can't picture him smiling, and it's a shame because he smiled a lot. He always laughed at his own dumb jokes. I miss him sometimes, but I often wonder if I would have even remembered him if he hadn't died so suddenly. He never seemed cut out for it, not that any of us really were... I was probably less surprised by his death and more surprised that I was there to see it."

Sherlock finally speaks after a few moments of watching John stare down his the hands clutching the water bottle. Sherlock found his eyes darting to something unseen out of the corner of his eye, feeling vulnerable.

"I believe that could fall under hindsight bias, we believe what we choose to believe, no matter the outcome, we will believe we knew the ending from the start. Perhaps you use that to lessen the blow of his death, a kind of denial."

"Perhaps," John muttered, not really listening. He wondered to himself who was really the head-shrinker betwixt the two of them. Suddenly, the realization that he had class the following morning popped into his head. "What time is it?"

"4:30 am now," Sherlock answered after looking at the blinking alarm beside him. "You have class in a few hours. Try to sleep some more. I'll be writing, let me know if you need anything."

After a pause, John reached out to pat Sherlock on the shoulder but withdrew his hand halfway, "Thank you, Sherlock. Goodnight."

Sherlock stood quietly, a bit floored by the attempted touch before slinking back to his bed in the dark, returning to his laptop. Deep in thought, Sherlock clicked away at the keys with epiphany. At one moment of his writing, he almost had a smile on his face (though it more closely resembled a smirk).

The blue light on Sherlock's face held tight in concentration was the tether John clung to as he tried to fall back asleep. His eyes began to drift shut when he thought he heard his name. Opening his eyes, Sherlock's eye bore into him from over the view of his laptop, his bemused expression was now somber.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John asked, rubbing his eye, blinking for wakefulness unsuccessfully. He hardly able to keep his eyes open as he stifled a yawn.

"If it happens again, should I wake you?"

"The dreams?"

"Yes."

"Right. Just wondering." Sherlock said more to himself than John.

John smiled at his aloofness, a joking smile crossing his face as he spoke, "Aw, Sherlock. You _do_ care."

Sherlock did let slip a clearly visible smirk that time, cracking his knuckles above his head, "Sure, John, whatever helps you sleep at night. If you have good dreams, then I won't have to bother myself to wake you."

"Heavens to Betsy, Sherlock," John chuckled, his good mood returning in his tired delirium. "God knows where the world would _be_ without your beauty sleep!"

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock huffed, sounding very similar to an irritated parent.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Really."

"Go to sleep." Sherlock half-snapped, returning his attention to his laptop.

John turned his back to Sherlock but as he closed his eyes he could still pair the image in his mind's eye of Sherlock ticking away at the keyboard while the keys clicked softly behind him in the background. The sound did lull him to sleep eventually, his breaths filling the otherwise silent room.

Sherlock stopped typing the moment John fell asleep, setting his computer aside and crawling under the covers. Looking back over at John, he watched the rise and fall of his side as he breathed. Not having the innate fear of sleeping with another person in the room was a foreign concept after Moriarity, but John seemed to calm him.

Realising this fact, though, did set him a little on edge. Now he had a weakness. Who was to say Moriarity, from beyond the grave where his mangled body lay, was out of the game?

After falling victim to Moriarity for so long, he wondered if the dead boy could exact some convoluted revenge even now. He still had loyal slackers who followed his command like trained dogs. Who was to say? He flung out of bed and paced the room a few rounds, absently touching and arranging objects quietly in the room out of nervous energy.

Eventually, after staring at the familiar drawer of his once more and then at John, Sherlock laid down and scoot his back to the wall. With a newfound alertness despite his fatigue, he faced the door, slowly falling asleep.

...

A few weeks had passed, and John seemed to have the same nightmare at least once a week. Each time, when Sherlock woke John up, it was always a gentle shake of the shoulder met with a cold bottle of water once John roused himself. Each time it happened, John sat side by side with Sherlock in silence until he had calmed himself enough to fall back asleep. The routine was calming in its own way.

They never spoke outside of the quiet, fervent whispers of "John, wake up" that Sherlock would say in varitations until John would respond "Thank you" upon recieving water. Then silence, quiet breathing, and eventually the rustle of sheets as they each got back into bed. They didn't need to speak, the presence of the other was grounding enough.

...

One of these mornings after a particularly bad night, Sherlock was awakened by the sound of John speeding around the room, cursing that he was going to be _very_ late to the lecture if he didn't leave soon.

Sherlock stuffed a pillow onto the side of his head and grumbled irritably, "Missing a single lesson will not be detrimental to your grade. Quiet down, John, I am trying to sleep."

"I slept through my alarm and now I'm going to be late! Shit shit shit, where is my _cane_?!" John hissed, walking around the room.

"I didn't ask for an explanation, I asked for silence!" Sherlock snapped, springing his torso up off the bed to which he met John's expression softening into a laugh. "What?"

"Your hair... It looks like a rat's nest."

"If you have time to make fun of my hair you must clearly not be late," Sherlock muttered.  
He nearly betrayed a look of embarrasment, instinctively trying to smooth his hair down, then narrowed his eyes in interest upon looking up at John again, "By the looks of it, you clearly do not need it... Not even a limp."

"No, n-no, I _need_ my cane. I _have_ to find it." John nearly whimpered, flustered and now frustrated to boot.

"Just go. You'll be late. Take the elevator if you must, the walk is not far from here." Sherlock supplied, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

"Damn it all," John kicked his bed frame with his left foot, hissing quietly when it connected. "Don't burn the place down before I get back, yeah?"

John (unknowingly, after it was pointed out) suddenly overdepended on his "bad" leg, worsening his limp as he took his bag with him out the door and locking it. Sherlock waited for the ding of the elevator before rolling over and pulling the "lost" cane out from under his bed and tossing it back to the other side of the room onto John's bed.

"He will thank me later once he gets over this psychosomatic masochism," he muttered, turning back on his side and falling back into a peaceful sleep.

...

When John did return to the room a few hours later, his limp (as Sherlock had predicted) had lessened significantly and seemed to be no more than a minute stutter in his normal step. Sherlock was wide awake now, actually working on his assignment. Though he did text in spurts back and forth with Molly, his focus was at peak performance.

John stood for a moment, staring hatefully at the cane. He growled in irritation as he turned on Sherlock, the dark-haired boy poking and prodding at his plant experiment.

"My cane is on the bed."

"Why, yes it is. Excellent observation, Watson." Sherlock sassed, an absentminded amused expression as he tended his plants and wrote notes.

"It was not there when I left."

"Epitome of spatial awareness," Sherlock hummed, grunting in displeasure as he jotted down results, muttering scientific nonsense about the poisons. "I am astounded by your unending wealth of memory involving this precise room."

"I looked all over in here, even the bathroom! Only place I didn't look was in your things- _You_ took my cane!" John was livid, his posture completely straightened, "You _took_ my _cane_!"

"I did, indeed."

"But why?! You do realize what a gigantic prat that makes you, doing this, yeah?" John closed Sherlock's note book and tossed it aside. He wanted Sherlock's full attention.

"You seem to have lost your limp without the help of your cane." Sherlock observed matter-of-factly.

"What gave you the right to take my cane?"

"You did not need it, you said so yourself, even the psychologist said-"

"No, _you_ said-" John huffed, pointing his finger.

"You did not deny it-"

"Sherlock, _no_. That's an excuse! What you did was wrong- taking an accessibility tool for any reason is stupid and bloody awful, that is abundantly clear. Psychosomatic or not that is my _choice_ how I choose to deal with it!"

John huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ever the patient man, he wanted to understand, despite the voice he took on as though he were scolding a child.

"Why did you do it? What made you think that such a stupid, hurtful thing was such a good idea?" John crossed his arms, watching Sherlock suddenly have an expression of uneasiness flash in his face. Sherlock wasn't used to looks of betrayal, not like this.

"The other night, when I told you about the limp not being genuine, you seemed defeated. As though you'd given up. I just wanted to make it clear to you that any advantages in attractiveness to the female sex you have right now are yourself, not always a compelling need for them to fix you. You'll never get a girlfriend acting that way, acting like-"

"That was _weeks_ ago! Besides, who says I want one?!" John fumed, "Who needs the extra burden, after babysitting you day in and day out? My _god_ it's like Harry all over again when she-" He exhaled shakily, his anger now mixing with grief, he surpressed a crack in his voice as he spoke, "Forget it. Just do what you want. I'm going to get a drink."

"It's the middle of the day!"

"Do I look... like I care?" John asked darkly, his right hand shaking minutely.

John gathered up his jacket and other items before heading to the door, cane left untouched on the bed. Sherlock, at a loss of what to do, tried to stop him at the door.

"You forgot your cane," Sherlock tried handing it to him and John scowled.

"Clearly I won't need it anymore, will I? I just have to _get over it_ , just like every damn shrink I have been to has ever told me since I was released from the hospital."

"John, I'm sorry. Really." Sherlock looked shaken now, his facade of indifference nonexistent. He grabbed John's arm, he could just barely feel Sherlock's fingertips trembling. "Please... I-I'll play the violin. I'll play..."

John was angry, furious even, but while he barely knew Sherlock he was quite sure that this behavior was severely out of character. This was the first real emotional vulnerability he had shown in the weeks they'd lived together. Their occasional game nights with Molly had not revealed any new information, other than the distinct feeling that he was intruding on something unspoken.

Like how when Molly would leave at the close of game night, she always had to touch Sherlock before she left. A grounding touch to his arm, a hand on his shoulder, a playful pat on the head or cheek. He never understood why Sherlock always seemed so closed off when she did this, always immediately going to bed after she left. He could put this argument aside for now, but not forever.

"Sure, fine. I'll cool off, but you're not off the hook for this." John sighed, tension suddenly rising in his shoulders as he moved the cane aside to sit on the bed.

Sherlock tidied his side of the room, pulling out a violin case carefully from under his bed. John watched Sherlock completely tune out once the violin was in his hands, eyes empty as he tuned it with ease. The light in them returned when he did a small, inhaled breath and drew the bow across the strings.

John suddenly no longer felt the need to breathe as he held it to listen. The song was familiar, but he couldn't think at all through the tidal wave of emotion the song conveyed. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his expression peaceful as he played the melancholy tune, his upper body swaying along with the song.

Minutes passed by, seemingly silent except for the quiet singing of the violin. When the song concluded, there was a quiet knock on the door but they did not move to open it. For a moment, there was silence, then a voice.

"Sounded amazing, Sherlock." Lestrade whispered through the door, a sad smile audible in his voice, "Thank you."

Then, the two boys were silent as his footfalls fell away from their room. John exhaled deeply, his chest feeling sore and unused. Sherlock seemed a lot like a child, profuse in his righteousness and obliviously unaware to the consequences of pushing his ideals onto others.

John (rightly) assumed that this particular trait was one acquired in childhood that just went unchecked and so carried into adulthood. _Less sociopathic, more stunted emotional maturity_ , John reasoned.

 _Did that make Sherlock's actions okay? No. But did he, misguided as it may be, think he was doing the right thing? Probably_ , _but he wanted to understand. To understand, he needed to find the root of the problem. To do that, he needed to ask the right questions._

"You held up your end," John asserted, "I'll hold mine. What about a session now?"

"Now?" Sherlock seemed flabbergasted, wiping his violin down before setting it back in its case. "I can't see why not, I suppose."

"I'll get a notebook, if you don't mind me writing down notes." John put on his air of professionalism now, Sherlock's transgression momentarily forgotten. "It will never leave this room."

"Okay." Sherlock slid the case under the bed before sitting on his bed. "Need I lie down?"

"If I didn't know any better, Sherlock," John started, uncapping a pen with his teeth and making a few preliminary notes. "I would dare say you were trying to make a joke."

"Glad you know better, then." Sherlock muttered flatly and rolling his eyes, already bored.


	5. Happy Pills

_**Meaning: an antidepressant or other drug, regarded as inducing a feeling of happiness or cheerfulness**_

* * *

Sherlock was currently laying on John's bed, propped with pillows and John sitting at the desk with his notepad, the two looked quite out of place. Especially since, if you judged the situation by sight, Sherlock clearly looked more at ease than John as he wracked his brain for a logical way to begin.

"Where would you like to begin? Wait, let me rephrase. What would you like to get out of these talks, what are your expectations?" John asked.

"To see things from a more empathetic perspective, I suppose," Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. His response seemed genuine, if not a little caught offguard by his own response.

"Why is that? Do think empathy is something you should personally improve upon?"

Sherlock followed this question with an annoyed sigh, his short attention span already getting the better of him.

"Can we be more direct, Watson? I'm bored."

John managed to choke down a laugh, trying to channel his professional side and ignore how much Sherlock's petulance amused him in this particular moment. He made a quick note, the next thread of conversation ready in his mind.

"Alright then. What was your childhood like? Who was active in your family circle? I don't need details, direct is fine."

"My family has always just been my parents, my brother, and I. We aren't close. No immediate relatives. No friends growing up, really. Had a dog, though."

Not looking up, John kept taking shorthanded notes. "And why do you believe that is? That you aren't close with your brother?"

"Perhaps the fact that he is a proud, self-absorbed, self-righteous excuse for a man."

"If I may," John smiled, looking up from his notebook.

"By all means," Sherlock gave a sweeping gesture, laced with annoyance. " 'Strike while the iron is hot' , as my mother used to say."

"You are _all_ those things. Perhaps you do not enjoy seeing the negative aspects of your personality reflected back at you."

"Well, am I glad these sessions are free of expense." Sherlock grumbled sarcastically, "I would hate to be criticized on my own dime... Not that I could afford it anyway."

"Fine then, too early for self-reflection." John conceded, "What do you mean by your dime? Do you pay for your own education? Graduate school is a lot of money, and you don't have a job that I am aware of."

"No," Sherlock went quiet then. "Mycroft, my brother, pays for everything. I have no money."

"No savings or help from your parents?" John asked, his curiosity outweighing his couth.

"Do I really have to answer this?" Sherlock crossed his arms, gruff.

"No, these questions are my own curiosity. You can break the deal any time you want. While this benefits you somewhat, I get the opportunity to ask you invasive questions and pick your brain. Its a win-win for me."

Sherlock sat there quietly, staring off into space for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and flat.

"...I haven't seen my parents in years, and my brother I haven't seen since the year started. I see Mycroft's assistant more than him."

"By whose choice does your family stay away? Yours or theirs?" John asked, leaning forward towards Sherlock.

In a panick, Sherlock half-scrambled to his feet and began fretting over his plants, "Both... I suppose."

"You seem unsure." John pointed out, ignoring the uncomfortable expression on Sherlock's face. He _had_ to press the issue further.

 _Surely_ , John rationalized, _he earned this discomfort for acting the way he had._

"They always preferred Mycroft. He was the _easy_ child. They never had to worry about where _he_ would end up. Oh, no, perfect Mycroft could do no wrong."

John, not backing down from the conversation, cleared his throat before speaking. This sound seemed to make Sherlock regain himself as he continued to watch his face sloughed into apathy.

"So, Sherlock... Describe a time where you think your brother got preferential treatment over you." John went on, losing rigidity in his form as he got more comfortable talking, even hanging an arm on the back of the chair.

"There wasn't any one time," Sherlock was insisting, a pressing tone that made his apathy mask slip just that smallest bit. "Countless times. Sherlock the prodigal son, 'ever the black sheep, 'ever the disappointment."

John wrote these notes down, but after looking again at Sherlock and seeing a strong disinterest in his expression John felt it best to leave things as they were. He said as much to Sherlock, excusing himself to take a shower.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger against the leaves of the control plant, still alive and flourishing compared to the rest. He didn't notice John's absense until he heard the shower turn on.

He closed his eyes, breathing deep through his nose and out his mouth as he calmed himself down. Talking about his family, about himself at all, always made him impassioned and somewhat terrified. Emotional blackmail, as odd a fear it was for someone as reclusive as him, was a constant worry of his.

...

Once John returned, Sherlock found his mouth tapered shut. He wanted to brush the topic off, to ask John how his classes were going or something to minimize the dark cloud settled in the room. He bit the left side of his lip in frustration, staring blankly at the desk top.

Sherlock looked up, prepared to speak, but Watson was sitting in bed, nose buried in a book his still-wet hair dripping periodically down the side of his face and neck. Yet, again, he was rendered speachless but this time only for a moment.

"Before... When you said you felt like you were babysitting me-" Sherlock started, but stopped hinself mid-sentence after hating how pathetic it sounded. He didn't want to ask if John meant it, he didn't want to know the answer. "You mentioned your sister. What happened?"

John nearly fumbled the book from his hands, shock clear on his face, "I shouldn't have said that... I don't feel like your babysitter. I was just mad. Forget I said anything."

" 'Once said, never unsaid.' " Sherlock mused half-heartedly, "Dad used to say that... Even if you did not mean to say it, you did mean what you said."

They fell silent. They stayed that way for the rest of the day, as night fell they still went to sleep without a word from the other. John did not have the nightmare from his deployment so they both slept all night. When Sherlock woke the next day, though, John was gone, his cane propped by the door in the corner of the room.

Sherlock finished up his data, turned over the plants and thesis to the head of his department. He went through the theatrics of complaining that plants were not as viable a subject, but information could be gleaned if anyone had the scientific initiative and resource to test further on more humanlike subjects like lab rats. Standing in the hot shower after returning back, he found it did not soothe his nerves the way it usually would. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Sherlock has always hated waiting.

...

First thing after his shower, he texted Molly and informed her of the news. It wasn't until John got out of class and came back to the two of them leaned back against the wall beside Sherlock's bed, asleep, that he figured out the change. The plants were gone. Molly and Sherlock, hip to hip, clearly had fallen asleep talking. Sherlock had turned everything in, despite it all. He didn't expect him to finish so soon.

John was jealous, not only of Sherlock's college career being more or less over to move on in life, but of how close he and Molly were sitting. Stupid as it was, the past few weeks of their odd routine- John's recurring nightmare, Sherlock waking him up, sitting together in the quiet with their shoulders touching, Sherlock's grounding presence always winding him down until he falls back asleep. He, though he would never admit, almost felt possessive of Sherlock now.

Sure, Greg was coming over more as the weeks had passed and joined a few game nights. Though his goal seemed to lie solely in showing up Sherlock in retaliation for the playful (for Sherlock, anyway) snipes towards him and the more severe complaints about Anderson. Sherlock thrived on the competition, though he didn't always win he always had reasons lined up why his strategies didn't work.

John had grown quite fond of Sherlock, though he knew it was somewhat a reciprocated friendship, being friends with Sherlock Holmes required a quite steep learning curve. He felt that it was worth it though, Sherlock was by far the most interesting person he had ever known.

While he didn't know much about Sherlock's history, he knew how Sherlock takes his coffee, he knew that he is a remarkably still sleeper, he knew that while Sherlock enjoyed wearing dress shirts and slacks all the time he was abhorrent of ironing so had taken to just staying in his pajamas in the house and steaming the clothes instead when going out, he knew that Sherlock has a soft spot for musical theater though he would publicly state otherwise. Over a few weeks, he quite enjoyed being in Sherlock's orbit.

Remembering their talk about the heliocentric theory brought a small smile to his face, and the jealousy dissipated. He had his own closeness with Sherlock, he hasn't known him as long as Molly has but there is always time.

He let them alone, taking his eyes from them and unpacking his bag, preparing a study guide for his next exam. The end of the semester was pretty soon. He stared at the lined paper as the realization that he would be alone in this room very soon, once Sherlock moved out and graduated, felt unpleasant.

"Oh, I fell asleep. Serves me right for staying up with Greg watching that new show... Oh! John, hello." Molly smiled, yawning and wiping her eyes. "Sherlock has good news."

Sherlock's eyes opened at the sound of her voice, ruffling his hair back into place (in vain).

"Doesn't take a detective," John smiled bemusedly. "Plants missing, calling you over when it's not game night, not hard to guess."

"Very astute of you, Dr. Watson," Sherlock joked dryly, causing John to blush a little. He liked the sound of that.

"Anyway, I'll be on my way." She stood, stretching, but made a point before leaving to gingerly cup Sherlock's cheek in her palm. Some unspoken words exchanged between them, held within a sustained gaze, and she went outside the room to leave.

At this particular action, his jealousy flared up again, though this time he wasn't sure why. They were like siblings, it was not a romantic gesture, yet he felt it was almost... unfair that he couldn't convey his appreciation to Sherlock in a similar way without the wrong idea coming across.

John stopped her halfway down the hall, "Molly, uh, I don't mean to intrude by asking this, but why do you do that? Every time I've seen you two together, you always have a weird 'parting ritual' like a sailor going out to sea. It's, well, it's very unusual..."

"We're really close..." Molly smiled sadly. "But sometimes I worry I'll wake up and he'll disappear. Like he never existed at all... I've gotta go, but I'll see you soon, okay?"

She waved over her shoulder as she left, and when John entered the room, Sherlock was changing his shirt. With his back exposed, John could see long, thin slash marks dotted around his back in flat, pale lines. Sherlock was quick to pull the replacement shirt over his head.

Unspoken, until this point, they never changed clothes outside of the bathroom for privacy... John had changed out of embarassment, but now he could see why Sherlock did. The sight was burned into John's memory now, offhandedly he wondered if there were any more scars Sherlock was hiding.

"What happened?" John asked, half wanting to look at the scars again in the flesh. He thought he had seen a mole or two on Sherlock's back as well, but that was entirely unrelated.

"In my teens," Sherlock smiled sardonically, "I was climbing an old tree on the family farm, lost my grip and fell below into the rose bushes. Left nasty scars for a little while."

"They look like they had to hurt."

"They did, took a while to stop the bleeding." Sherlock confirmed. "It didn't hurt too badly, though, when it happened. It was after that it stung. I was too dazed to feel much of anything, then. Treated it myself, didn't wanna go to a doctor, that's part of the reason it scarred."

"That's unfortunate, I'm sorry." John was uncomfortable again. The doctor in him had the odd urge to reach out and touch the scars, now covered by a plain periwinkle tee shirt. Perhaps there was a cream to reduce their visibility, or minimize the scar tisue. "So, your thesis is complete?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, grateful for the change of subject. "Now, I wait."

"Now _we_ wait. I imagine you'll be restless until you hear back. You'll be pacing back and forth all night, playing that violin like a madman. You might even refuse to eat unless I complain enough." John smiled, "I know _that_ much about you."

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"What I did with your cane. Again, I'm sorry. I only was trying to help. I see now it was misguided. I betrayed your trust... I will not do that again."

"I forgive you, this time. Don't do anything stupid like that again. Friend card doesn't have unlimited uses, you know."

"You would... consider me a friend then?" Sherlock betrayed a ghost of a smile, touched by the indirect gesture.

"Of course, Sherlock, you're my best friend." John's statement of what he felt to be obvious was enough to cause a short circut in Sherlock's brain.

The look of shock and confusion that attached themselves permanently to Sherlock's face had only deepened when John gave him a brief hug. John didn't know how to articulate his appreciation for Sherlock being there during his night terrors, but after showing such a gesture foreign to Sherlock (aside from the very rare hug from Molly) he instantly regretted it. Sherlock stiffened in the hug, making it increasingly unpleasant as seconds felt they dragged along like hours.

"That was awkward." John laughed uncomfortably, letting his arms fall back to his sides. "Sorry. Won't happen again."

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Just been a while. Even Molly doesn't really hug me, though it's not as though I initiate contact with her. She does that on her own."

"She does do that, yeah. Now that you mention it." John responded coyly.

"I swear sometimes she thinks she's my mother. She _fusses_ over me constantly," Sherlock hissed, though not with malace. "Even bugs me to see what I eat at every meal."

"She cares," John smiles sadly, "Wish I had someone like that. My parents stopped trying to get in touch with my after my sister died. My sister was the only person I was close to, but I went in the service after she died in my last year of high school."

"Wait, Harry? Your sister is dead? Isn't that the one with the pocketwatch? ...Oh." Sherlock at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.

John shrugged the conversation off, not really wanting to talk about it anymore, "Want to go get some food? I've got a coupon clipping for a pub nearby."

Sherlock nodded quietly, following behind.

...

They sat at the bar of a local uni dive pub, near the back of the bar. It was an hour in and only took a couple ales before Sherlock was buzzed, flushed, but still had his wits about him. He was eating fish and chips while drinking, unlike John who was nearing 6 bottles himself on an empty stomach. Sherlock offered the rest of his food to John, who had a ruddy face and a dazed expression.

"You need to start drinking some water. " Sherlock offered helpfully, getting two glasses from the bartender. "Eat too. If you vomit, I refuse to clean it up. The acrid smell disgusts me."

"Mmm, tasty dinner conversation," John responded sarcastically as he pointed at his mouth, full of food he was trying to chew.

John saw her before Sherlock, but he didn't like her the second their eyes met. She had been there a while, nursing a drink but still sober. She watched a while before approaching.

"Why, hello there. Mind if I buy you a drink, gorgeous?" The brunette smiled in a catlike grin, "Not you, blondie. Not my type."

At this, Sherlock finally turned to see the dark hair, fair skin, and deep red lipstick. She was very attractive, but he refused to drink any more. Someone had to take John home safely, he told himself.

"My name's Irene, what's yours?" She asked, confidence sliding smoothly off her in waves, the trenchcoat she wore looking a lot like she was covering bare essentials beneath. "You have wonderful eyes."

"Not interested." Sherlock deadpanned, taking a sip of his water and trying to avoid her gaze.

"You sure? I'd quite like to get to know you better." Irene stuck a hand out, using the tips of her fingers to trace circles on the the outside of Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock squirmed a little out of the way, a little paralyzed by the whole ordeal.

"He's with me," John harumphed, pointing a chip at her in a way that would have been accusatory had he not been hardly able to keep his eyes open.

"Is that so?" Irene took the hand that had been shrugged of his thigh and knotted her thin fingers in his hair and tugged, and side-eyed Sherlock to gauge his reaction.

Sherlock was uncomfortable, but still a little buzzed, pulled her fingers from his curls with a soft yank.

"I _said,"_ John's stare turned icy, " _back. off_. He isn't interested."

"I don't see him telling me no." Irene licked her lips subtly.

"He is _with me!"_ John hissed loudly in the level of a stage-whisper.

"No need to yell, John, let's go." Sherlock insisted, setting some bills under the corner of his plate, standing and helping John steady himself to his feet.

Irene leaned back against the bar, "Shame. Our bodies would have been quite compatible."

When they exited the front door and the jingle bells signalled the door closing behind them, John growled in frustration.

"Why would you let a stranger touch you like that? You are so weird about it, yet she did all that! That's sexual harassment! And that comment, yikes! Did she think that was supposed to be sexy?" John yelled emphatically.

"Lower your voice." Sherlock hissed, embarrassed as a few people beside them on the sidewalk stopped to stare.

"For Christ's sake, you let her pull your hair!"

"John." Sherlock's voice got dangerously low and gravelly. "Quiet."

"Oh wow," John's heart beat quickly in his chest, breaking out in a stupid grin. "I think I just swooned a little."

"What?" Sherlock said aloud, his heart speeding up at what he thought he heard.

"If I wasn't there, you would have gone with her," John sniffed, smile gone, losing his balance and leaning against the nearby corner of a building while he gained his footing. "I saw that look on your face... When she pulled your hair."

"What of it?" Sherlock spluttered, face beet red as he tried steering John forward again towards their housing. He took a shortcut through a nearby alley in hopes no one from school could hear them.

"Molly gets to touch you, that stranger had her hands all over you, and I give you a hug and you go stiff like a dead fish!" A crack in his angry voice turned into something pathetic and sad, "After all the nightmares you woke me from, the companionship you showed me when I had no friends or family to support me. I wanted to show my gratitude and I hug you... and you didn't hug me back. Do you have _any_ idea how that made me feel, or does your Spock brain not compute any of that?"

"That's it? You're _jealous_?" Sherlock asked, confused but albeit amused that John was indeed a Trekkie (as he always figured). He was having a hard time with the buzzing in his brain to keep his thoughts coherent and on topic. The implications of jealousy went over his head entirely.

"Yes. Extremely." John admitted quite candidly, "Molly has known you much longer than I have and I envy her. You are the most interesting person I have ever met and the fact I have to share you annoys the shit out of me."

"I think you need some sleep, John. You aren't making sense." Sherlock diverged the conversation, his ears turning red under his curly hair.

John went quiet, pensive, as they made their way back. They arrived at dark and slipped into the room uninterrupted. Sherlock near-tossed John on the bed when he came round to his senses some.

"Sherlock..." John, a little sobered up but still drunk enough that his stupidity had not worn off, he spread his arms out at his sides. "Just hug me back. If I'm your friend too, that's all I want. If not, then I'll drop it. I'll never ask you for anything again."

Sherlock couldn't seperate his wants and desires from the warped logic derived from slight inebriation, and something unrecognizable beginning to coil in his gut, but he complied. He wrapped his arms around John who squeezed him in a vice. Sherlock, suddenly feeling a little weak in the knees tightened his own grip and was half-lowered to the bed. He breathed deep at the base of John's neck, and took in the scent of their cheap ale, John's cologne, and something else he couldn't place- something sweet.

He was so relaxed, it took him a few moments to realize that John had been playing with Sherlock's hair. Running his fingers in it, pulling pieces to length, twirling them around his forefinger. Sherlock would later swear it was the inebriation (though he was barely past a light buzz) that made him moan quietly under his breath. John, too drunk and focused on the task at hand, did not hear this and did eventually let go from the hug.

"Thank you, Sherlock." John whispered, dozing off.

"Night." Sherlock whispered, hyperventilating and opening the drawer once again. The bottle rolled to the front with a thunk. He wasn't dreaming. Closing the drawer he ran to take a cold shower.

...

When morning came, it being a friday meant no classes. John stretched his arms from his sides, yawned, and glanced over to see Sherlock wide awake, staring intently at him. Sherlock was up all night, thinking.

"How much do you remember?" Sherlock asked, aloof.

"I remember drinking, some girl pawing at you at the bar and- Oh no." John's eyes shot open. "I didn't, we didn't, uh, you know... Did we?"

"You hugged me, if that's what you mean. Told me how jealous you were of that Irene character and Molly for 'having their hands all over me' was the gist of it. Care to explain?"

"I- I don't know. I mean, yeah, I might've said something like that but I was drunk and that Irene girl was doing that in a public place!"

"When you hugged me, you were playing with my hair." Sherlock mentioned aloud, not sure where he was even going with his line of thought. "Why were you doing that?"

"I don't know," a tender smile betrayed John's face as he whispered, "It looks really soft."

"John..." Sherlock felt his toungue leaden in his mouth. "If I give you _limited_ permission, to hug me, to touch my hair, touch my shoulder, whatever weird consoling things friendship means to you, can you be trusted to not make this weird?"

Floored, and quite frankly a little embarassed, John walked over to Sherlock's side of the room and sat on the bed next to him, their knees touching. "Sherlock... what do you mean by 'weird'?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, clicked his tongue, and sat up straight to directly meet John's eyes, "Honestly? I am a very emotionally-barren person. I am on-edge all the time because intelligence, while a gift, is a burden. I have trouble connecting with others, like Spock, such as you so aptly pointed out last night. I have not felt at peace like that in a really, _really_ long time. You are my best friend, dare I say my _dearest friend_. I can't ruin our friendship. We need boundaries if this is going to work."

"I've always been an... affectionate person. I know, it can really put others off." John admitted, "My family and I were never close, so all the love I had to give I gave to my closest friends."

Sherlock pulled a face which made John laugh.

"I'm not saying I had sex with them or something, Sherlock." John smiled, biting his lip as he surpressed another laugh. "It depended on my relationship with them. Some of my friends I felt the need to shower with gifts, some were just cuddle buddies, some we were emotional rebounds- again, with the face!- it was more of an emotional support net; you know, ease each other back into life without a romantic partner... Though that was really only one friend of mine I did that for, we went on dates, we had sleepovers, I was there if she needed me."

"I believe Molly calls those 'gay boyfriends', a boyfriend there to shower with positive attention but is not attracted to you and won't have sex with you." Sherlock earned a rare flabbergasted expression from John. "Not to say you're gay, that's just what Molly calls them. She means it endearingly, I think."

"I'm not offended, I am just surprised you took to a coined phrase like that. Besides, I'm not gay, per se. I'm, uh, still too inexperienced for a sexuality. That being said, I don't plan on jumping your bones, Sherlock if that's what you're worried about."

"Then what _are_ your plans, John?"

"I don't know," John shrugged. "Just take life one day at a time, I guess."

"Sounds alright. I guess." Sherlock looked at John with a conflicted expression. "It might make the sessions easier. I'll be more relaxed, I should think."

"Sherlock, uh, if it's not too early to ask... I was wondering if we could rent this new movie I wanted to see on your laptop. We could..." John found his heart racing again, the prospect of just touching someone never made his heart race like this before. "We could sit together."

"Easy enough." Sherlock shrugged, grabbing the laptop and scooting against the head of the bed, pillows propped.

"Uhm, Sherlock?" John had told the truth before, but he had already figured out last night he had feelings for Sherlock. His jealous behavior and possessiveness was evidence enough.

"Yeah?"

"I meant more like you can sit the laptop on your lap and I can watch over your shoulder."

"I'm not understanding." Sherlock thought John nearly-daft, quite honestly. Giving affection out for nothing more than a need to feel connected, out of loneliness. At least in Sherlock's case, while he had been cunning enough about it, the time he spent awake watching John sleep he knew he was in too deep. The emotion was untrodden ground.

John's lip quivered as his face turned red, "No, I meant like spooning but we're sitting up. It's like cuddling. You said you liked when I played with your hair. I can do that from behind you. Just, watch."

John took Sherlock's place at head of the bed, spreading his legs apart some, "You sit here and you can lean back on me. It's very comfortable this way, if you were in my place, I would dig into you since you're so lithe. I make good cushion."

Sherlock didn't smile, but did as instructed and leaned back against John's chest as John tried searching the movie. John was right, it was pleasant, so comfortable he fell asleep after only a few minutes. As John played with Sherlock's hair, running his fingertips through the soft locks, he felt truly at peace.

Both were starting to feel the seeds of love grow, but neither knew of the other's, and neither would forsee the darkness ahead.

* * *

 _ **A.N.**_  
 _ **I know it's a long chapter (almost 2x as long at nearly 5k) but the outline for this chapter ended up longer than the rest, go figure.**_


	6. Poison Pill

_**Meaning: an element introduced into the restructuring of a corporation so that it becomes undesirable for another corporation to take over**_

 _ **Trigger Warning: Drug Overdose**_

* * *

Sherlock woke to the movie over, laptop nearly falling from his lap. As Sherlock removed the computer from his lap and setting it aside, John woke up and sighed happily half-awake. Sherlock nearly turned around to ask how long he'd been asleep until John squeezed him in a gentle hug from behind.

Sherlock felt himself blush and wrenched himself from the touch, lying that he had to go to the bathroom. John's eyes grew heavy again but he forced himself back to his side of the room and flopped on his bed. Sherlock splashed water on his face, looking at the dripping reflection in the mirror. He took note of the dilation of his pupils, the speed of his racing heart, and his usually dry hands moist with sweat.

The bathroom mirror, with its tiny crack in the bottom left corner made his breath hitch.

 _... Flashback ..._

Pleasant weather, first sign of fall, made Jim Moriarity to feel compelled to open their only window. This forced Sherlock to weigh his papers down with a few small rocks as he worked on his project.

"Have you ever been on a swinging bridge, Sherlock?" Moriarity asked from the bathroom, out of the blue, as he was primping in front of the mirror for another night out.

"Is there a point to your blathering, _Jim_?" Sherlock hissed furiously, trying to focus on his plants on the desk. His roommate had been humming and scooting around the room rhythmically to music for the past half hour getting ready for a "date".

"It has been proven that high arousal- in this case meaning fear and agitation- can falsely make you perceive attraction. There was a study done on a swinging bridge, which proved this theory-"

"Get on with it," Sherlock muttered with discomfort. "I'm busy."

"Well, can't you feel the ground getting closer and closer? Feel the parachute giving out? Can't you, Sherlock?"

"Quiet will you, I can't think!" Sherlock had yelled, throwing one of the rocks at Moriarity and barely missing his temple. The mirror broke in the corner with a loud crack.

"Now, see what you've done!" Moriarity half-scolded, amused, "This is why we can't have nice things Sherlock."

"I was aiming for your head."

"Have to do better than that to get rid of me, _detective_." He whispered dramatically, "I have a date tonight. Shame you can't meet them, they're quite a scream."

"I abhor your psychotic jokes."

"Oh well. See you later, Sherly... Don't wait up." With that, Moriarity left with a smile. It was the last time Sherlock saw him alive. That is, until he identified the dead body at the morgue- half convinced it was all a big joke.

* * *

He breathed in and out quietly, taking in shallow breaths in hope to regain his composure. Luckily, he needn't have bothered. When he regained himself and went back into the room, John was gone. He tried to rack his brain to remember if John said anything on his way out, he couldn't be sure. Likely just went to the canteen, he reasoned.

Alone, his fear still high, he rushed to the drawer. It opened with a loud thud, the pill bottle rushing to the front with a muffled thwack. The bottle's contents clicked against each other as he licked his lips and let his eyes flicker over the label. He swallowed deeply, breathed, and forced down the pill with a sip of water. He left the pill bottle on the desk and stared at them in irritation.

He hated the pills, he hated what they represented: weakness. They gave him these for his post-traumatic stress, the stressed caused by little Jim pitching himself from a roof. The body so splattered that Sherlock, who prided himself on his strong stomach, even felt his face twist in distaste. The memory still gave him gooseflesh. Irritated that the simple memory of Jim drove him to this weakness, he laid on his bed and prepared for sleep.

He did not know how long he slept, but he woke with a start from a dreamless sleep and threw his guts up into the toilet. John, who had come back at some point while he slept, came into the open bathroom and looked at Sherlock's quaking body with concern.

"Are you alright?" John asked, his expression nervous.

"People always ask that, don't they?" Sherlock whispered huskily, spitting bile into the toilet. " 'Are you alright?' Although it is quite clear that I am not 'alright'. I have a massive headache."

"Don't be a prat, Sherlock." John hissed, wetting a rag with cold water before putting it on the back of the boy's neck. "Does this help?"

Sherlock let out a weary, contented sigh, and wiped the acrid saliva from his chin with toilet paper. "Thank you."

"What happened?"

"... Had a stress episode before I fell asleep. Maybe it just hit me late." Sherlock lied, standing abruptly and nearly knocking John on his ass.

"I need to wash my mouth out," Sherlock said more to himself than John, going to the sink to fill his cup.

John, feeling snubbed, threw the rag on the floor with a scowl, "Feel better. I'm gonna check in with Greg, we may be going to the shops, I'll be back soon."

Sherlock swished the water in his mouth and spit in the sink, he nearly caught himself saying 'I won't wait up' before he choked on the air he had breathed and coughed roughly, nearly giving himself a headache from the strain.

John left with a spared look of concern in Sherlock's direction, taking his phone with him.

* * *

Time seemed to pass very slowly with John gone, Sherlock felt his mouth go dry after a while and kept trying to drink water but it didn't seem to help. After a while, the pacing around the room left him unbalanced so he flopped into a sitting position on the floor. His headache began to worsen. He checked his watch, but couldn't seem to grasp the time. In a panic, he called John.

The phone rang five long tones before he answered, "Sherlock? Hello?"

"John..." was all he could get himself to say, "John... JOHN!"

"I'm coming, give me ten minutes!" John yelled.

* * *

The door opened with a crash, Sherlock collapsed sideways on the floor beside his bed, skin stark white and his eyes dulled as he laid in a pool of his own bile.

"John... You came." Sherlock had a soft smile, one so vulnerable it terrified John at the sight of it. Tears were trickling from Sherlock's eyes slowly, as if of their own accord. They dripped from the bridge of his nose to the floor, eyes brimmed red and puffy. "John... I don't want to die."

"Greg, call an ambulance!" John yelled, Greg's eyes popped out of his head at the yelling. "GREG!"

"Right, right." Greg muttered, hands fumbling as he got on the phone with emergency services. His lower lip shook and his hands tremored, but he patiently recounted his need for an ambulance. He stuttered minutely but kept his head, exhaling sharply.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John whimpered. At no response, he checked for any blockage in the mouth and found none, as expected. No sign of seizing, just vomiting and fatigue- his mind went into many different directions to try to assign symptoms to a diagnosis in the doctor-in-training portion of his brain.

"My friend he- I don't know what's wrong, he's-he's just laying there." Greg blurted, "I-I-I don't know, it looks like he's been throwing up. Symptoms, uh, I don't know-"

Sherlock, awake but not talking, breathed shallow as his distant eyes were glued to John. John grasped for his usual ease of mind and called out what he saw best he could.

"Uh, vomiting, he said he had a headache, glazed expression- Greg tell them!"

Greg recounted the information, before he stopped to catch his breath he huffed anxiously, "They're already on the way. They told me to stay on the phone."

"Put it on speaker, I need you to get cold, wet rags." John's voice shook, but his army training was coming back in stride.

Greg obeyed, rushing around like mad. John, trying to calm down, finally noticed the bottle of pills on the dresser and grabbed them in a hurry, still watching Sherlock's lazy blinking.

"I think he took something, I've never seen this pill bottle before!" He yelled to the operator, who said something affirmative in reply.

Greg brought the rags, which John used one on Sherlock's forehead, another to wipe the sick from his face.

"Sherlock, did you take this?" John asked, "it's half full. Did you take a lot? Sherlock! Stay with me!"

Sherlock licked his lips, lip curling in disgust at the taste, as he whispered hoarsely, "Just one."

A dumbstruck look crossed John's face, then a thoughtful one, opening the pill bottle and observing them closely. The pills were all identical capsules, but a strange smell hit his nose from the bile rag and capsules as he heard bounding up the stairs- the EMS.

John sighed in relief, Sherlock's eyes a little more active from the cold water, weak and limp. John and Greg made way, one of the emergency personnel barking about the ambulance.

"Can I ride with you?" John asked.

They rolled Sherlock onto a stretcher but one of them nodded and urged him to hurry. As a split-second thought, he shoved the pill bottle in his pocket and followed them hurriedly. Greg was close behind, still somewhat distraught.

"I'll meet you at the hospital, need to get Molly. I'll see if I can get a hold of Mycroft, he gave me his number. You watch over him, yeah?!" Greg stumbled behind him, yelling the final words as the doors of the ambulance closed behind John.

He handed the bottle to them, "It smells weird, the pills."

One of the workers nodded quietly, putting the pill bottle in a hazmat zipped bag before going silent again.

* * *

The ride to the hospital seemed long, the wait for Greg to bring Molly in stride seemed even longer. He watched the door with dread and anticipation for the two to arrive.

When they did, Molly was crying, clinging to Greg (who was having a hard time holding himself together as well). John stared at the floor tiles, holding Molly's hand until loud foundsteps thundered in front of them, stopping right in front of Greg.

"Gregory," the voice said, curt, "What happened?"

"Mycroft," the sound was hollow, almost fearful when Greg managed to speak. "Are your folks here too?"

"No, of course not." Mycroft huffed, pulling up a chair and sitting across them. He adjusted his suit with an annoyed look. "I said, what happened?"

"We don't know."

Mycroft was clearly suspicious but leaned back in his chair and huffed, "Well, _this_ will be a while, I'm sure."

John, although irritated at Mycroft's aloofness, was too worried about Sherlock to pay him any mind. He wondered if his strained relationship with a god he did not believe in would bring him solace if he prayed- it was one of the times he wished he didn't throw away the rosary his sister had given him as a kid.

He counted the imaginary beads in his mind, muttering prayers silently as some tether to hope that seemed so desperate right now. Of all the times for everything to happen, it happened when he and Sherlock were finally growing close. The thought made him pause his counting, _was this somehow his fault?_

He removed his hand from Molly's and crossed his arms, leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He stared angrily at his feet for a long time, hating the sound of Mycroft's fingers clicking constantly at his cellphone.

He didn't know how long they all were sitting there, but after a while someone in scrubs came to talk to them, "Are you all here for Mr. Holmes?"

The four of them stood quickly, legs wobbly from anxiety.

"He's stable, but unfortunately we can only allow one person in the room at a time so that he may stay calm. Family goes first-"

She didn't get to finish her sentence before Mycroft interrupted, "Yes, lead the way."

She, caught off guard, nodded solemnly before leading him away. The three of them sat down, relieved, but John was still mad, muttering, "What is the matter with him? What an attitude!"

"He's always been like that," Greg was trying to shush him down, people looking at them with odd looks.

"What I heard from Sherlock was a good description, I think. Was exactly how he described him." Molly clicked her tongue off her teeth, eyes watery with frustration and relief. "I'm gonna get something to eat. Join me, Greg?"

Greg nodded, his stomach gurgling in reply, "Want to come along, John? I'm not sure how long we'll be here. I don't know when he will be discharged."

"No, I'll wait here," John wrung his hands, eyes glued to the door Mycroft went through. "I have to see Sherlock first, make sure he's okay."

"Sure, mate. Text me if you hear anything." Greg nodded, wrapping an arm around Molly as they tried following the signs towards the cafe.

* * *

It wasn't five minutes after they left that Mycroft had pushed the double doors open with both hands, grumbling as he strode outside and out of sight.

The woman returned, looking somewhat embarrassed, "Mr. Holmes has requested his brother be barred from visitation, but he asked for you. Please follow me."

John stood quickly, nearly losing his balance, and walked behind her as fast as he could without running. After the double doors closed behind them, something seemed to dawn on him.

"You said before that only family could see him right now, but I'm just-"

"You're John, right?"

"...Yes?" John stopped, confused.

She seemed perturbed and sighed, "He asked to see his fiance, John. Are you not him?"

"...Yes." he drawled, confused.

"Visiting hours close in 45 minutes, keep it brief." She ushered him into the room, leaving the door cracked behind her.

Sherlock was propped up in bed, pallad and humorless, IVs seeming to pour out of each arm like a lab experiment.

He smiled thinly, "John."

"Hey, _honey_ ," John joked, trying to lighten the mood so he wouldn't do what he really wanted to do (cry and punch Sherlock in the throat). "Funny we got engaged without me knowing."

"They said family only, and I wanted to see you." Sherlock said cooly, taking a sip from a foam cup of water.

"You wanna talk about what happened?" John asked, his strong voice wavering, crossing his arms weakly.

Sherlock suddenly looked ashamed, a look of self-disgust settling at the corners of his smile, "Funny thing about being the smartest person in the room... When your mind, hardwired for pragmatism and logic, begs for you to destroy yourself- to rid yourself of the mind that both invigorates and tortures you- there is no one in that room that you can ask for help."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" John snapped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, licking his lips, looking away, "They won't tell you what happened, because I'm quite sure they have to check out what I told them first to make sure it's true- I poisoned myself, John."

"Why in the bloody hell would you do that?!"

"It's a long story," Sherlock deadpanned.

John looked at his watch, and muttered back, "We have 43 minutes, make it a short story."

"Well... I can't place when my depression began, exactly. I isolated myself for most of my childhood. Mycroft surrounded himself with yes-men that I can only describe as _subjects_ , as though he was some kind of king by his mid-teens, and so I wanted to be the exact opposite. I stayed away from others, a few useful connections here and there if I needed something, but no one I would call a friend.

"At some point, something must have shifted because I can recall after a certain point never going out to school functions or enjoying myself in class. It was all about absorbing information, collecting data, remembering for tests to get an A only to forget by the time I woke up the next day; it was all irrelevant.

"Then, when Moriarity came along, though, it was like I had purpose again. My arch-nemesis. We competed with each other in everything we did and his final checkmate was his death. When things took a turn for the worse, I wanted to die. It was my first time feeling like I could really do it. Just kill myself. But his last laugh was dying how I always wanted to.

"You know... Jumping from a great height, so I could feel like I was flying. My fallback though, was my little bottle of pills. They are all identical in every way except half are my real pills and the other half are poisoned with arsenic. My kind of roulette with death.

"I had just wished I was alone in the world, not to be missed. No guilt, nothing holding me back. I wished for that, so I cast others aside. But, John Watson, here you are, and I don't want to die. I took a pill hoping it would ramp me down from an attack, all the ones I have taken so far were the real thing, I just had a stroke of bad luck this time."

"Why would you do that to yourself when the pills are supposed to help?" John asked.

"They felt like a crutch, John-" his eyes went dark. "A cane."

"That's why you did that to me? You thought you could save me because you couldn't save yourself? What kind of shit is that?"

"I'm not justifying what I did, we had this conversation," Sherlock sighed, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I'm just telling you how I relate to it."

"You seem calm for someone who nearly died," John hissed.

"Lots of practice." Sherlock whispered with shame.

A knock came to the door and the woman peeked her head in, clearly uncomfortable from the heavy atmosphere. "Sir, visiting hours are about to close for the night. We need to give time to debrief you before you leave."

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock muttered, taking John's hand.

"Goodnight, Sherlock... I'll be back tomorrow." John whispered, still furious, but so happy the idiot was alive. He kissed the boy's forehead and stomped out behind the woman, clearly worn down from rounds.

"Based on his story, he did not intend to commit suicide, however he did possess the means to and because of that we will have to commit him at least until his body is flushed of the arsenic and he is psychologically evaluated. He will be on lockdown for the next few days, but after tomorrow he should be able to have multiple visitors." She paused to exhale.

"I know you will probably hate me for saying this, but go home. You can't do anything for him here, we will do our best to care for him, so care for yourself. Come back tomorrow, you can stay all day. Once he is moved from this unit tomorrow he can have overnight visitors. We currently do not see any formed complications from the poison ingestion but we will have to wait and see. Just, go home, okay?"

John nodded, feeling small and helpless, "Can I bring him his things tomorrow? Clothes, toiletries, his phone, things like that?"

The woman smiled sweetly, "Of course, hours open at 9. Have a good night, sir."

"Sure," John nodded, walking back towards the waiting room.

He texted Greg to find them both already waiting for him, Molly gave him a hug and Greg nodded in acknowledgement.

"We can all stay at my place tonight," Greg offered, "Anderson is... out for the night. I figured you wouldn't want to be... alone right now."

"Thank you Greg, Molly," John whispered, following them to Molly's car.

* * *

The night was quiet, they popped popcorn and watched a movie that none of them quite paid attention to. Greg and Molly fell asleep during the movie, leaning on each other. John slept with eyes facing the door all night, half expecting Sherlock to walk through it. It was quiet... so, so quiet.


End file.
